Of No Certain Consequence
by Psyche17
Summary: Complete! Sequel to Jillian. Lucia hires an assassin for revenge against Arthur. Tristan X Jillian plus other pairings as I go LancelotOC...?. Please read & review!
1. Chapter 1

This is the sequel to "Jillian," and though it's probably better to have read "Jillian" before reading this, I don't know that it's completely necessary. I hope you enjoy!

------

Beyond Hadrian's Wall and beyond Badon Hill and further still beyond the Thames river, deep in the forest, an ancient oak twists its mighty trunk in defiance to past tempests and torments that sought to force the leafed giant into a submissive bow. Like a coat of arms worn and tattered from battle, the oak bears a faded etching upon its breast, "He who hath nothing to die for hath neither anything to live for." What is worth living for? I say love: the love of your God, the love of your country, the love of others. What is worth dying for? I say freedom: the freedom to love your God, the freedom to love your country, and the freedom to love another. But what of those who have never felt God's mercy nor the pride of their ancestors nor the warmth of a neighbor's touch? Who will weep at the deaths of the lifeless? Who will weep for those lives of no certain consequence?

------

Jillian stood at the edge of the square at Hadrian's wall observing the bustle of the marketplace at midmorning. An elder man with furrowed eyebrows brushed passed her hurriedly. "Excuse me," he mumbled, rushing off at a determined pace. Jillian smiled. The market was always a hectic place at this time of day, especially now that it was no longer under Roman control. The native Britons were free now to haggle and barter by their own terms and without unwanted interference of nosey clergymen and military men who believed in the right to take the fruits of a countryman's labor without just payment. Good riddance, Rome.

Hadrian's wall seemed to Jillian an unprecedented conglomeration of native tribes from throughout Britain with the noteworthy population of Romans who remained in Britain after their empire's retreat. There were, of course, Romans and even several woad tribes who refused to recognize Arthur's reign over the land and remained significant threats to the now somewhat united country. Perhaps this was not so terrible, as it kept the otherwise restless king and his Sarmatian knights busy.

Jillian firmly believed in Arthur's cause to unite these wayward sects to his kingdom, and her admiration for him grew with every trial faced and overcome. She noticed that other Britons also felt as she did. Jillian had been working closely with Arthur and his gallant Sarmatian knights since the battle at Badon hill. She rode with them on each mission working as a healer, which they had been in need of since the tragic loss of their brother in arms, Dagonet. Her days of joining the knights on their adventures, however, would soon reach an intermission.

Jillian gently touched her hand to her stomach as she strolled through the marketplace and smiled with the kind of elation one cannot contain, but must radiate in the irrefutable belief of infectious happiness. It had been five days since she had discovered the life growing inside her and four days since her devoted knight learned he was to become a father. Jillian had not been certain of and even feared what kind of reaction to anticipate, but she was cursed with honesty and could do nothing but admit to her current circumstance.

Jillian let her hand drop to her side and felt the sudden intertwining of fingers between her own. The unexpectedness and intimacy of the touch startled Jillian, who consequently leaped an inch off the ground in fright.

"Tristan!" she gasped, exhaling a sigh of relief at the figure she so well recognized and who always seemed to have a way of suddenly appearing to her without warning. "How do you do that?"

"I walk very quietly," he shrugged. She returned his explanation with a quizzical look as they continued walking hand in hand through the square.

"Are you happy?" she asked suddenly.

"Yes."

"Do you promise?"

"Yes."

Jillian never needed many words from Tristan to assure her of his love. Theirs was an unspoken love. They knew every corner of the each others' souls to the point that endearments and professions of ceaseless love and constancy seemed only a superfluous occupation like a carpenter purchasing a wooden table on which to lay his beams. Jillian spoke often on various topics: an upcoming mission, uprisings among the woad tribes, quarrels among the ever incorrigible Sarmatian Knights, past occurrences, future plans. Tristan always listened.

If he were to be completely honest with himself, Tristan was not completely sure he was ready to be a father. He loved Jillian, and her pregnancy was certainly both an attestation to and consequence of that love. He knew he would love his child, but children needed more than love. Was Tristan capable of raising a family or even being part of one?

-------

It seemed the entire city of Rome took to the streets for the funeral of Cassia Gaius who had died peacefully in her sleep two nights before. Cassia Gaius was much beloved and her death was greatly felt by all. Her body was reverently carried through the main street in a procession as children flung white roses at the feet of those who marched by.

Tarra hated crowds. This was probably because she hated to be touched. She didn't know why, and really, she had never taken the time to care. Her arms clung tightly to her body crossed around her chest as she made her way through the waves of people seeping through the streets towards the middle of the city. She found a somewhat empty alleyway and quickly ducked into it. She passed an old beggar who lay dying and scoffed at the irony of his desertion as the entire city gathered to honor some dead Roman lady.

Tarra was in Rome on business and hoped to leave presently and with a bounty worth the distress that such a large, crowded city caused her. Hers was a unique profession whose only requisite seemed to be a complete lack of scruples. She had learned quickly, however, that it was far better to be without scruples than without money; and hence, started her own business of freelancing her conscience to the highest bidder.

Tarra found the building she sought and ascended the steps she found within. The steps led to a small apartment with a window overlooking the main street where the funeral procession slowly passed. A cloaked figure sat at the edge of the window observing the event as five guards stood about the room, eyeing Tarra suspiciously.

"Uhh, I'm supposed to meet Lady Gayness?" Tarra muttered, keeping a sharp eye on the dangerous looking guards.

The cloaked figure stood and walked slowly towards Tarra. "Gaius," corrected the figure, uncovering her face from the hood that had cast a shadow upon it, "Lucia Gaius."

"Whatever."

Lucia let out a sigh of annoyance, "I will forgive your manners on the assumption of their cause being ignorance and not insolence. Though I do suspect that assumption unfounded, I shall resist any retaliation for the simple reason that I need you. I have a job requiring your skills that is perhaps more difficult than any you have executed in the past, but I assure you, I will reward you handsomely."

"Oh, I assure you you will, too," Tarra answered.

"I suppose I will just get straight to the point, then."

"Very intuitive of you," remarked Tarra.

Lucia frowned. "Do you know of Arthur of Briton and of the Sarmatian knights loyal to him?" Tarra nodded that she did, though she would never let escape how she knew. "You see, I do not forgive or forget transgressions made against me," Lucia explained, "and I want Arthur and his scout named Tristan to feel in their dying breaths the wrath of Lucia Gaius and to curse the day they chose to make me their enemy."

"I'm interested in the part about handsome rewards," Tarra said, not particularly interested in any hate-filled back-stories.

"I will pay you three hundred gold coins," said Lucia, giving added inflection to the amount, "for the heads of Arthur Castus and his scout."

"Three hundred, eh? They might sell you their heads for such a price," replied Tarra, impressed at the sum.

"Do you accept?"

Tarra thought for a moment. Her previous work had mostly included theft, espionage, and blackmail. This would be her first assassination. Could she go through with it? "I accept," she answered. For three hundred coins, yes, she could. "I demand two hundred in advance," she added.

"Yet you shall only get one hundred."

"Done."

The guards escorted Tarra from the room, giving her directions to deliver the heads to an estate in northern France where Lucia was to be residing. Tarra committed the directions to memory with satisfaction that she would not have to return with the bounty all the way to Rome. After fitting her with the proper instructions, the guards departed coolly without the formality of farewell.

Tarra trodded gleefully back through the alleyway listening to the coins jingle in her pocket. "You're likely to be robbed carelessly exhibiting your wealth like that," came a dangerous voice from behind. Tarra turned to see Barak Mahal approaching her from behind.

"Oh it's you," Tarra said, trying to hide the strange excitement she always felt at seeing him. Barak Mahal had dark skin and uncommon, bright green eyes. He was contemptible and vile, and Tarra hated him---most of the time. He was conniving and, unfortunately, irresistibly charming. It was Barak who had manipulated her into the profession she now occupied and had convinced her to go to Arabia where she had been before arriving in Rome.

"So I was just offered a job to kill some king of some place called Briton," Barak confided nonchalantly.

"Oh really?" Tarra answered, trying not to reveal the sudden alarm she felt at his being assigned the very same mission she had just accepted. The situation could turn very unfortunate were he to get to Arthur before she did.

"Trouble is I have another job waiting in France making it impossible for me to accept."

"Too bad," Tarra said, somewhat relieved, yet curious as to why everyone was heading off to France.

"Yeah, except that I did accept."

"What?" replied Tarra, confused.

"Well, you try saying no to four hundred gold coins!"

'Four hundred?' Tarra thought. Blast, she should have bartered up the Gaius woman for a higher price.

"Look," continued Barak, "I'll pay you two hundred if you get rid of this Briton fellow for me."

"Hmmph!" Tarra retorted, "If I'm to do all the work, I expect no less than three hundred and fifty."

"Look, don't push it. I'll give you two fifty."

"Not good enough," Tarra answered, "Besides, you know very well I've never done murder."

"You once said you'd kill your own kin if the price was right."

"Easy for me to say. I have no kin," replied Tarra, then added, "And like you just said: if the price is right."

"Three hundred. My final offer," said Barak.

"Done," answered Tarra. Barak gave her a toothy grin and a nod. He was about to turn and leave when Tarra called after him, "What shall I do after I've killed him? To whom do I deliver the news?"

"The death of a king does not go long unnoticed," answered Barak, "and my employers wish to remain anonymous." With that, Barak disappeared into the shadows. He infuriated her with his mysteriousness. She wondered who had offered him the four hundred pounds. She supposed it mattered not as long as she received her three hundred.

What fortuitous circumstances! She was to be paid double for the same kill, and what a surmountable sum it was to be. Tarra would make haste and leave this wretched city immediately as there was no cause for delay. She anticipated to find Briton far more agreeable than Rome and more profitable as well.


	2. Chapter 2

"Someone remind me what the hell I'm still doing on this bloody island," groaned Gawain. It was a cold, rainy late afternoon as the knights returned to Hadrian's Wall. Mud splattered beneath their horses' hooves as they trotted along the path.

"Living abroad, expanding beyond your birth land. I hear it's very popular among the Romans, no offense Arthur," Bors jested.

"But I've been living here practically all my life," Gawain contended.

"You never did make a very good Roman," Bors teased.

"Sometimes I wonder why the hell anyone would want to invade Briton in the first place," interjected Galahad, "It's not exactly an exotic location."

"Just you wait," said Jillian riding up beside them, "Someday Briton will be the new Rome, the central power of the world. We may not live to see it, but I am convinced of it."

"That just absurd," scoffed Gawain.

"I'd rather see this place in the hands of the Saxons than as the next Rome," Bors said.

"You might get your wish," muttered Tristan, referring to the recent Saxon attacks on British villages.

"I, on the other hand, think Jillian could very well be correct," Lancelot said giving Jillian one of his dashing smiles, "and I wager it will be one of my sons that first receives the title of Caesar."

"Why would it be one of _your _sons?" asked Arthur. Lancelot smirked. "Oh. Oh, I see," said Arthur, contorting his face in discontent.

"Don't worry, there's consolation in company, right Bors?" Lancelot teased.

"Gawain, let me borrow your axe," said Bors angrily.

"How's your chest?" Jillian asked Lancelot, trying to change the subject. Lancelot had only recently returned to his occupation of knighthood after spending many months recovering from a cross-bow injury he had received to his ribs during the battle at Badon Hill. Jillian remarked many a time that it was nothing less than a miracle that Lancelot survived the blow. His armor had broken the bolt before it could penetrate too deeply into his chest allowing Lancelot to sustain merely a broken rib and a gash from where the bolt had lodged itself.

"Certainly not as shapely as yours---" Lancelot leered, but stopped short after a pointed glare from Tristan. Jillian rolled her eyes and urged her horse farther forward to ride next to Arthur.

Tristan observed as Jillian and Arthur began one of their routine theological discussions of religion. Jillian was one of those people who were naturally eager to soak up any knowledge they could and she had begged Arthur to teach her to read Latin. She reasoned that reading Latin would be extremely useful as she could then study various manuscripts on medicine. Within no time at all, she had read every manuscript in Arthur's library about medicine and every other topic at which point Arthur, after careful consideration, was forced to relinquish his copy of the Holy Bible for her perusing. Arthur was wary of the gift not because he feared any disrespect to it on her part, but rather because he wanted not to appear to be forcing any beliefs upon her.

Jillian, however, was enraptured by the scriptures and such began her and Arthur's endless debates on philosophy and theology. If it had not been his destiny to become a great commander and king, Arthur would have made an exceptionally gifted teacher for he had a rare kind of patience that allowed for any question no matter how bold.

"Arthur, I am utterly confounded," Jillian announced as they rode side by side.

"And why is that?" asked Arthur, smiling at the dispute he knew was imminent.

"This Pontius Pilate---he is a Roman, is he not?"

"Yes."

"So it was the Romans that put Jesus to death?"

"This is true."

"The Romans killed their own God?"

"Well, the Romans weren't Christians at the time," explained Arthur.

"So, the Romans chose as their God a man they had executed? You are a strange people," Jillian commented. Arthur laughed.

Lancelot watched as Tristan observed Jillian and Arthur's discussion. "Possessive, are we?" Lancelot taunted.

"Nosey, are we?" Tristan retorted.

"Of course, there's nothing between them, but really I'd say that's the least of your worries," continued Lancelot. Tristan raised an eyebrow, but did not indulge Lancelot with a reply. Lancelot continued his speech anyway, "What you _should _be worried about is that she might become---" His voice trailed off.

"What?" asked Tristan.

"A Christian!" Bors interjected teasingly with a menacing voice. Bors and Lancelot roared with laughter as they watched Tristan immediately gallop up to Arthur and Jillian, interrupting their conversation.

----------

Tarra arrived at a port in the north of France from which she would sail to Briton. Still being occupied by Rome, the port was filled with Roman cavalry monitoring each ship that departed. This would prove an interesting endeavor. Tarra was feeling much better after leaving the crowded city, and was definitely, _definitely _back in her element. Tarra liked to think she was one of the most dangerous women alive, mostly because of the thousands of masks with which she could disguise herself. Tarra drew in a deep breath and made her way towards a Roman soldier who stood guarding a ship that was about to depart.

"'ello sir, any room on this ship for a poor peasant girl?"

"It'll cost you a gold coin," answered the soldier.

"Aye, sir. Right here sir," Tarra replied flipping him the coin.

"What is your business in Briton?"

"Visiting my brother, sir. Ha'nt seen him in a good long time. He owes me money, too. Stupid blighter, takin' money from a poor beloved sistah. Well, they'll be no more of that I reck'n."

"Right. I need to see your papers."

"Papers? Sir, I don't e'en read what would I be doin' with papers?"

The soldier sighed, "I need proof of your Roman citizenship."

"What matter be my citizenship of a country I be presently leavin'?"

"I can't let you on the ship without the papers."

"Do you have papers?"

"Err, well, yes."

"How much you wantin' for 'um?"

"Excuse me?"

"I'll pay you for 'um. How much you want?"

"Listen, missy, you better be getting on your way. We're about to disembark, and I can't let you on."

Tarra clenched her jaw and drew in a deep breath. She was about to stomp off when she suddenly turned back to him. "I'll be wantin' that gold coin back!" The soldier rolled his eyes and tossed it back to her. She would have to find another means of transportation.

She noticed a man in captain's dress inquiring to another man where the _Diana _was docked for that was the ship he had been hired to sail to Briton.

"Captain!" called Tarra, waving her hand to him, "Over here! I can show you where it is docked. Follow me!" The captain tipped his hat to her and eagerly followed her as she led him around a corner. Suddenly she stopped and turned to him, looking him directly in the face. He averted his eyes from her nervously, his mouth gaping open in confusion as if about to stammer out a question from his tongue-tied mouth. Tarra, however, gave him not a chance to utter a single word as her fist met with his nose in a stunning strike that caused him to topple over unconscious.

"Beg pardon," said Tarra, stripping the captain of his clothes and quickly dressing herself in them. She then hastily grabbed his hat, tucking her long, dark hair beneath it. She adjusted her posture, standing up as straight as she could. She stuck out her gut and broadened her frame as much as her slight figure could afford.

"You there!" Tarra, using as deep a voice as she could muster, called to a man who waited by another ship, "I'm Captain Norton, remember that name. I'd be much obliged if you'd point out which of these fine ships is the _Diana_."

"Captain!" responded the man, "I'm Ganis! First mate to the ship of which you speak! I'd be happy to show you where we are docked. Though, I must ask, what happened to Captain Gringham? Was he not to captain the ship today?"

"That he was, intelligent, dutiful lad, but he came down with a severe case of the runs if you follow my meaning and won't be sailing anywhere today. Now, show me to this ship."

"Right this way, sir," said Ganis. He was about to place his hand on her shoulder to lead the way, when she drew a dagger from her belt and held it to his neck.

"I am not to be touched," she warned. Ganis nodded quickly in compliance, his eyes bulging from his head in shock at the knife held dangerously close to his veins. Tarra dropped the dagger at her side and motioned for him to show her the way.

Now in the guise of a respected captain, Tarra easily evaded any Roman attention. Once aboard the ship, it occurred to her that she actually knew nothing about sailing a vessel. "Ganis, my boy," she called to him, "This is your lucky day."

"Excuse me?" Ganis replied.

"Step right up! Let's see what you're made of. Think you can handle the ol' girl yourself?"

"Sir! Yes sir! It would be an honor!"

"Well, hop to it, lad!"

Ganis eagerly took his place behind the wheel and began calling out orders to the crew. Tarra breathed a sigh of relief, and sat back against the rail of the ship. She watched as the French port grew smaller and smaller into the distance.

"Will this be your first visit to Briton, sir?" asked Ganis.

"Indeed," answered Tarra, "Yours?"

"Oh, no," Ganis said, "I was born and raised there. Worked on a Roman farm before their withdrawal. Now, I'm no braggard, but I will say that I am in close association with the king."

"Is that so?"

"Yes, fought with him at Badon Hill. Like I said, I'm not one to boast, but I fought bravely that day. That I did. That was before I got into the shipping business."

"Very interesting," Tarra replied, bored to death by his speech.

Their conversation, however, was suddenly interrupted by a number of the crewmen taking position in the middle of the deck and brandishing their swords.

"Nobody move! We're taking over the ship!" called out the one who seemed to be their leader, a large hairy man with a dark beard.

Well, this is lovely, Tarra thought. "Identify yourself, sir," called Tarra to the crewman.

"I am Raywold the Saxon," he replied proudly, "and my comrades and I will be bringing this ship into Briton and relieving it of its cargo."

"A very well conceived plan," Tarra said, "I applaud you. Tell me, Raywold, do you consider yourself an intelligent man?"

Raywold seemed caught off-guard by the question. "Well, yes, I suppose," he replied.

"I thought that might be the case. I'll tell you what. I wager all the cargo on this ship that you aren't half as intelligent as my first mate here, Ganis."

Ganis was about to stammer out an objection, but Tarra stifled him with a sharp glare.

"Bollocks!" remarked the proud Saxon.

"Let's put it to the test then, shall we?" offered Tarra, "I'll pose a question and whoever answers it correctly claims as his property the cargo of this ship. What say you?"

"May the Saxon blood retreat from my veins if ever I, Raywold son of Hygelac, back down from a challenge!" was his reply.

"Very well then," Tarra replied, "Here is the question: I'm the part of the bird that's not in the sky. I can swim in the ocean and yet remain dry. What am I?" Tarra walked slowly over to where Raywold stood, looking at him menacingly in the eyes. Raywold's eyes scanned his fellow crewman hoping to find the answer in their expressions.

"Come now," taunted Tarra, "any fool could guess it."

Raywold furrowed his eyebrows in frustration. "It's a trick!" he cried, "A bird leaves no part of itself on ground and I've never seen anything rise from the ocean with not a drop of water!"

Tarra smiled slyly. "Ganis," she called, "What say you? I have not a single doubt you know the answer. Not a---single---doubt."

Ganis stood silent for a moment wracking his brain for the answer. Finally he cried in exultation, "A shadow! A shadow remains on the ground while the bird is in the sky and can swim in the ocean and come out dry!"

Tarra smiled proudly at her first mate. "Good," she said approvingly, "Now, let's see if Raywold be a shadow, shall we?" With that, Tarra snatched the sword from Raywold's hands and kicked him off the side of the ship. "By the splash, it appears he's not," Tarra jested. She then turned to the rest of the crew pointing her sword at them in warning. "Now then," she said firmly, "any others care to join him? No? Very well. Get back to work."

"Captain!" cried Ganis, "That was---genius!"

"Devoted shipmate, I believe it is you who has earned the title of genius today," Tarra answered him with a grin.


	3. Chapter 3

It was not but shortly after their farewell to Raywold the Saxon-turned-pirate that the British coastline appeared on the horizon. Tarra's sickly, green-tinted face betrayed that she certainly did not lament the voyage's conclusion.

"You feeling alright, captain?" inquired Ganis in his usual cheery tone.

"Yes, yes, I am fine," answered Tarra unconvincingly. Her stomach lurched with queasiness. 'I am never, _never_ leaving dry land again,' she thought.

"Where do you intend on staying once we reach port? If you like, I know the owner of an inn right at the harbor---"

"Oh that won't be necessary," interrupted Tarra, still clutching her stomach with one hand, "I have---business---to attend to."

"Alright then," answered Ganis, somewhat disappointed, "But really it's a very nice inn, very well kept. Guaranteed to be cleaned once a week, which regrettably can't be said for most of these places. There's a nice bar downstairs, too. Very good lot of people."

"I assure you I am in no need of residence," Tarra replied, growing impatient with Ganis' insistence. Cursed gods, that man was most verbose.

When the ship finally reached port, Tarra attempted to very quickly and evasively depart from the ship unnoticed, but as fates would have it, Ganis followed closely at her heels.

"Where you headed, captain?" Ganis inquired.

"Hadrian's Wall," Tarra muttered in response. She walked hurriedly, not even pausing or turning to him as she answered. Couldn't this kid take a hint?

"Sir! I am very well acquainted with the location you seek! I would happily accompany you on your journey to show you the way. It won't take us but a day's ride on horseback to reach it," Ganis offered with his relentless enthusiasm.

Tarra sighed, "Listen, you very scrawny man with an oddly shaped head! I am going to Hadrian's Wall. By myself! In solitude! ALONE!" Ganis shrunk back, his mouth agape at the rebuke from one he seemed to admire, which immediately filled Tarra with regret at her short temper and sharp tongue. "Look," Tarra said with more compassion, "I greatly appreciate your devoted assistance as first mate, but I am in a terrible hurry, so I must say adieu." With that, Tarra tipped her hat and took her leave.

"Captain!" Ganis called after her, "Will I ever see you again?"

Tarra laughed, "Ganis, I am a snake that all too readily sheds its skin and I fear, though we may meet again, you would all too easily fail to recognize my person."

"Is that another riddle?" Ganis asked, not quite understanding her meaning.

"That's the truth," Tarra called back to him and continued on her way.

---------

Once inside the gates of Hadrian's Wall, Tarra winced in pain as she dismounted the horse she had borrowed without permission from the port's stables. A very long time had passed since she had ridden a horse, and to find herself once again seated upon said animal and riding a full day at a steady pace was no happy reunion for her now very sore legs. In Arabia, she had accustomed herself to the lazy bobbing of the camel's back, yet she had to admit she found the horse's temperament far more amiable than the camels' stubbornness.

Tarra had discarded her captain's hat, but kept the rest of the masculine attire, as she had nothing else with which to clothe herself. The trousers were certainly too big, and her bulky black leather belt fought a considerable battle to prevent them from sliding down her hips. Tarra's tied her dark hair loosely at the back of her head with stray strands falling forward across her face. She looked ridiculous.

Tarra chose her steps carefully, lurking in the shadows and evading any unwanted attention. She almost burst out laughing at her own absurdity when the realization struck her that it was not as though any of these townspeople would recognize her. Then again, it was probably best not to give them the opportunity to recognize her in the future.

Tarra shrunk back behind a corner when she noticed a line of knights on horseback entering through the gates. She spied on them carefully, keeping herself well-hidden. She noticed a woman, clearly native to the country, riding at the front of the procession next to the leader who she assumed was the very renowned and soon to be very dead King Arthur. A bald knight farther back in the train suddenly roared, "A Christian!" Tarra then observed as the rest of the knights laughed heartily as another of their comrades rode forward to join Arthur and the woman who rode by his side.

'I hate it when I don't get the joke,' Tarra thought to herself as she stalked the knights from the entrance gates into the Tavern. By the fates, this was the oddest conglomeration of men in arms she had ever witnessed. The roaring bald knight was promptly ambushed by an army of half-sized warriors he greeted as "his bastards." The knight who had ridden up beside Arthur now took the woman's hand in his, and they followed the rest of the knights into the tavern. 'And you,' thought Tarra, now staring directly at the man with the scraggly, braided hair, 'are dead man number two.'

Tarra wondered why Lucia wanted this second man dead along with Arthur. She could postulate as to the various reasons why any powerful Roman would organize the assassination of the king of a former Roman territory, but what of this other man, Tristan? What had been his offense of such severity that he now carried a death mark over his head? Even more importantly, why did she care? Tarra shook her mind of all pointless questions and began concentrating on the circumstances of the present.

Unfortunately, as soon as the questions fled her mind, in crept the doubts. As was afore mentioned, Tarra had never before actually assassinated anyone, at least not in the murdering sense of the word. Oh, this was just rubbish talk! Tarra had never been a thief until she had stolen. How was this any different?

The knights filed into the tavern, filling their mugs with whiskey until it overflowed onto the dirt floor. Tarra took on the role of apparition, haunting the tavern as the knights drank and made merry.

"Hey Gawain," Galahad slurred.

"What?" Gawain asked, turning his drunken, rosy-cheeked face to his comrade.

"Balls!" cried Galahad, laughing hysterically at his wit. Gawain, in the state of inebriation that appreciates such drollery, returned Galahad's laughter in kind.

"Hey Bors! Come here!" called Gawain, sloshing the mug of whiskey in his hand as he motioned Bors over to their table.

"What?"

"Say balls!"

"Balls."

Galahad giggled, "Baaaaalls!"

Gawain roared with laughter, which proved to be contagious for soon Bors was howling right along with them.

"Arthur!" called Bors, "Arthur! Say balls!"

"Balls?" was his commander's reply.

"Hmm," Bors commented, "It ain't as funny when he says it."

"Balls!" Galahad blurted out mid-hiccup.

"You're all a bunch of children," Tristan said as he and Jillian made their way to be seated at the table with the rest of the knights.

"C'mon, Jillian. You know you wanna say it. Just once. C'mon," urged Gawain as he chuckled in anticipation into his mug of whiskey.

Jillian raised an eyebrow, smirked, and replied, "To say that, I'd have to be nuts."

"Did someone say nuts?" asked the beaming Lancelot who had sauntered over to join the merriment.

"Tha's not a very say thing to lady-like," spoke the ever coherent Galahad, "Oh, and also, balls!"

"Speaking of children, Jillian, you really must start putting on some weight," interrupted Vanora, "By the look of you, no one could guess you were almost two months pregnant." There was much truth to what Vanora said. If anything, Jillian had become even thinner since the start of her pregnancy and paler, too. Tristan put a protective arm around her waist, "She's right, you know."

'Oh, that's just sickening,' Tarra thought to herself, repulsed by the tender affection she had to suffer through witnessing. She praised heaven when Arthur stood from his seat and appeared ready to make a solitary retreat. This was her chance. Jillian held her breath.

"Arthur!" called Gawain, appalled by Arthur's attempted abandonment, "Where are you going?"

"You are a stupid drunk, Gawain," said Lancelot starting to feel the effects of the liquor himself, "You know he has a wife now that needs pleasing at this time of the night."

"Very funny," replied Arthur, always serious and always sober, "If you must know, I have business to attend to at the round table, but don't let my over-zealous work ethic interfere with your cheer. I'll see you all in the morning. Good night."

"Which is code for we'll see you at the round table in quarter of an hour," translated Bors, disappointedly.

"Oh, balls!" sighed lazy-eyed Galahad.

"Ha ha ha! Good one!" laughed Gawain.

Tarra watched as Arthur retreated from the tavern and calculated that not only would she have to make haste to arrive at the round table before Arthur, but she would also have to make haste about killing him before his knights arrived. She was very confident in her abilities, but not _that _confident. She would be no match for a king and five Sarmatian knights. Tarra scurried through a dark hall and made her way to the round table, which she was relieved to find abandoned. She quickly dove behind a tapestry, expecting Arthur to enter at any moment and wanting to ensure she had the element of surprise.

To her bewilderment, however, a man dressed from head to toe in black attire was also crouched behind the same tapestry. Their eyes met for the briefest instant before each drew their weapons. They struggled momentarily before tumbling out from behind the tapestry with Tarra's knife embedded in the man's throat. Tarra lifted her eyes from the now cadaverous man lying prostrate on the floor and found herself in the presence of King Arthur Castus who was presently staring at her with a rather quizzical look on his face.

"My," she said, her voice cracking nervously as she rose to her feet, "the floor certainly is slippery."

"I suppose," replied Arthur a bit uncertainly, "I should thank you."

"I'm sorry?" Tarra said, extremely confused.

"By the badge around this man's arm, we can clearly deduce that he is an assassin, can we not?" asked Arthur.

"Oh, right. That's exactly why I knifed him in the throat," said Tarra, though what she was really thinking was, 'By the gods, how many people want this man dead?'

At that moment, the door to the hall opened wide and in tumbled the boisterous Sarmatian Knights still warm from their liquor.

"We heard a boom!" announced Galahad, his eyes wide and glazed over. Lancelot and Gawain followed behind Gallahad into the hall and set their drinks down on the table.

"Everything alright in here?" asked Bors who came in next and noticed the inanimate corpse lying on the floor with a dagger protruding from its throat.

"Yes, everything is quite alright thanks to this young lady here," said Arthur, "Pray tell, to whom may I offer my thanks?"

Tarra was not given a chance to answer, for at that moment Tristan strode in with Jillian close behind.

"Tarra," Tristan acknowledged her coldly, with a slight nod of the head.

"Tristan," Tarra replied, matching his bitterness with the tone of her address.

"Wait, you two know each other?" asked Arthur, his head spinning in puzzlement.

Tarra nodded grimly, "He's my brother."


	4. Chapter 4

"Half brother," Tristan corrected, placing special emphasize on the word "half."

Tarra rolled her eyes, "Some things never change."

"What are you doing here?" Tristan asked directly.

"I've come to kill you," Tarra answered sardonically, "Tremble with fear and beg me to be quick."

"Hardly," said Tristan with a sarcastic, but deadly half-smile, "Now get out of here before you do something stupid."

Tarra's eyes flashed with anger as she opened her mouth to make a reply, but Arthur quickly stepped in between the two of them. "Everybody just calm down," he ordered with outstretched arms that he bobbed up and down as though he were trying to smooth the tumultuous surface of the sea.

"Now then," he said once he had everyone's attention, "Can someone please explain to me what is going on?"

"If I may," said Tarra with new found composure, "Tristan is still upset, angry, and, shall we say, bothered, about certain events of the past which have nothing to do with the current situation at hand so I will simply omit them in my effort to say that it is a great pleasure to meet you Arthur, but if you'll excuse me, I must be on my way." Concluding her speech, Tarra made her way for the door, but Arthur held up a suspicious hand to halt her.

"Wait a minute," Arthur said authoritatively, "You forget too easily that it is _we_ who came upon _you _here in this hall, an encounter of which the circumstances have still yet to be explained and are confounded by the question that seeing as you have---kin---here, why did you not make your presence known at the earliest opportunity after your arrival?"

Tarra cursed herself inwardly. She had some explaining to do. "To the first, I must kindly remind you, sir, that the circumstances in which you found me in your hall were with _my _knife in _your _assassin's throat and to the second, I can only expound that I have none that _I_ call kin, but only one who by blood relation the world would call my _half_ brother."

"And why are you in _Briton_?" asked Tristan, unconvinced by Tarra's heroic act of saving his commander's life.

Tarra looked at him placidly, "Why are _you _in Briton?"

"Is it just me or is this conversation going in circles?" interrupted Gawain.

"Arthur, I need to speak with you," said Tristan, dragging Arthur by the arm to a corner where they would not be heard by the others and, in particular, Tarra.

"You can not believe _anything _she says," Tristan warned.

"Tristan, I do not know what kind of past you hold with this girl, but she did save my life---"

"Arthur," Tristan said with eyes that were steady and calm, "You must trust me."

"Of course I trust you, old friend," replied Arthur, "but if my estimations are correct, much time has passed since you last saw her and unless you start talking to me and giving me solid reasons for your accusations, then there is nothing I can do."

"Arthur, I'm afraid you are making a terrible mistake," said Tristan solemnly.

"I have known you for a long time now," replied Arthur, "and I have never known you to give me false advice. I will keep a weather eye out for any trouble." Tristan nodded and let out a sigh of relief.

------------

In the mean time, while Arthur and Tristan secluded themselves in private conference, Lancelot took the opportunity introduce himself according to the laws of gentleman chivalry to the new lady of the clan. Lancelot strode over to Tarra and reached for her hand to bestow a kiss upon it, but the hand quickly retreated behind said maiden's back as she snapped away from the approaching knight.

"What do you want?" she asked with startled eyes.

Lancelot paused a moment as if suddenly unsure how to approach her. Then he gave a ceremonious bow, smiled, and said, "Allow me to introduce myself to the most welcome sister of an old friend and brother in arms. You may call me, Lancelot."

"Oh, I've heard of you," Tarra said with a faint smirk.

"Is that so?" replied Lancelot, "Only good things I hope."

Now, at this point, Tarra probably should have had the prudence to respond in the proper polite and complimentary manner, but once again her tongue ran away with her and she instead found herself blurting out the reply, "I heard you are as much a whore as you are a knight, bedding anything with two legs and a bosom."

"Madam, I assure you one needs more than two legs and a bosom to be bedded."

"Oh, I'm sure you'd find _some _way."

Lancelot laughed, "Come now, surely you've heard _one _thing about me that speaks for my honor."

Tarra thought hard for a moment, never letting her eyes leave his. "I did here one thing, but I admit I was rather reluctant to believe it."

"Do tell!" said Lancelot.

"I heard that at the glorious battle at Badon Hill you were struck in the chest by a cross-bow arrow and did not die. By your presence here in front of me, I can see at least half of the story is true."

"I assure you that the story bears no falsehood at all. The arrow pierced right here, a perfect aim to the heart," said Lancelot, putting his hand to his breast, "You might say I could very well be invincible to survive such a blow."

"I think it's because you have no heart," responded Tarra dryly.

"Well how could I, milady, when I have so clearly given it to you?" Lancelot parried.

Tarra let out a sarcastic laugh, "How unfortunate that I don't accept used goods."

Lancelot and Tarra's repartee was soon interrupted by Arthur and Tristan's return to the rest of the company. "Tarra, I believe I owe you my thanks," said Arthur extending his hand in friendship to her. She looked wearily at the strong hand waiting to meet with hers. "I'm sorry," she said, fidgeting and shifting her weight to her other foot, "If it's alright, I don't---like to be touched."

"Of course," Arthur replied warmly, dropping his hand to his side, "If you don't mind my asking, I'd like to inquire after where you have come from and what has brought you to Briton."

"Well," began Tarra, "It's no simple story, but I shall try to commit myself to brevity. You see, my most recent place of residence was with the Sultan Arif of Bostra, now Sultan of Petra. Petra is a city located in Arabia, which, as I'm sure you know, is yet another part of the far-reaching Roman Empire. I come to Briton for the simple reason that it is _not _a part of that wretched imperialism."

"I see," said Arthur, accepting this explanation, "Well, on behalf of myself and my knights, welcome."

Tristan rolled his eyes, and Tarra watched as he stormed out of the room with the native woman she had noticed earlier following closely at his heels.

"That is Jillian," Arthur said, noticing Tarra's observation of the two who had exited, "She and Tristan are expecting a child."

Tarra shrugged, disinterested, and turned her attention to the rest of the knights who remained in the hall. "Allow me to make some introductions," offered Arthur, "I believe you've already met Lancelot." Tarra turned to Lancelot who leered relentlessly at her, and she raised her eyebrow skeptically in reply. Arthur continued down the line-up, "The man you see standing against the wall is Bors, next to him is Gawain, and the man sleeping with his head down on the table next to a mug of whiskey appears to be the very inebriated Galahad." When Arthur turned his head back to Tarra, he was astonished to find that both she and his trusted knight Lancelot had vanished from the hall.

---------------

"Tristan!" Jillian called to the melancholy knight who was escaping down the hall, "Tristan! Stop!" He did not stop. He did not even turn around, but kept walking at a determined pace until he reached their quarters at which point he entered and closed the door behind him. Jillian stood outside the door and sighed. "You're acting like a child," she called to him from the other side. She then heard footsteps and the door opened to her. Tristan stood at the threshold, looked at her, then turned around and walked back into the room leaving the door open for her to enter. She did so, and sat down next to him on the bed. They sat in silence for a long time. Finally Jillian spoke.

"You can't always lock things inside yourself because pretty soon you'll run out of room and it will all explode out of you," she said softly.

"You don't really believe that," he replied, fixing his eyes on a spot on the floor.

"I believe that you have a choice," she said, "You either tell me or you don't tell me. But I do want you to. Because I love you. And because I believe it's the only way you'll ever move on." Jillian had always been very wise, and in an unprecedented length of speech from the silent knight, Tristan told her his story.

"It all started a very long time ago when I was only a small child back in Sarmatia," he began, "My father was long dead, but I lived with my mother waiting for the day that the Romans would come to claim my life in their service. At the time, I still had seven years to wait for that dreaded day. A Roman cavalry passed through our village, and one day I came home to find my mother pinned beneath a Roman scumbag. She was screaming in terror at the top of her lungs, so the soldier did not hear me when I entered nor did he hear me when I grabbed my father's sword from its place on the wall. But he felt that sword's tip as it penetrated through his naked back and into his heart.

"My mother and I hurriedly dragged his body into the forest and buried him where no one would ever find him. Nine months later she gave birth to a baby girl. She refused to even look at it. She begged me to take it into the forest and abandon it on its father's grave. What could I do? I wrapped the baby in a blanket and headed into the forest. I had almost reached the grave when I saw a caravan of traveling gypsies sitting around a fire. I crept as close to them as I could, and laid the baby down beneath a tree. Then I retreated back into the trees where I wouldn't be seen and I waited. As I suspected, the baby's cries caught the attention of one of the women who followed the sounds of its wails to find it beneath the tree. She scooped it up in her arms and carried it over to the fire. And I returned home to my mother.

"Six years later I was carrying firewood home from the forest when I noticed that same gypsy caravan. I swear I never thought they would return. Gypsies rarely travel by the same village twice, but there they were. I noticed a girl about six years of age sitting by the fire with a shawl wrapped tightly about her shoulders. She had tears running down her cheeks. A chill ran up my spine. I should have guessed what had happened.

"When I arrived home, I saw my mother's feet and they were not touching the floor. She had hung herself from a wooden beam that ran across the ceiling. I fled from the house back to the caravan, shaking with rage. I grabbed that girl by the throat and I shook her. And I kept screaming at her and calling her a murderer. I felt the arms of the gypsy men dragging me away from her into the woods and to this day, I can still see her small, unconscious body lying on the ground. The gypsy men dropped me on the ground and told me the girl's name was Tarra, that she had come to find her mother, and that she had had a terrible shock. They told me to stay away from her. I had not seen Tarra since then---until tonight, but I swear she is the spitting image of my mother."

Jillian sat quietly for a moment taking in what Tristan had said. Then she took his hand in hers and laid her head against his shoulder.

-----------------

"Tarra!" Lancelot called after the mysterious woman who was fleeing down the hall. He had followed her from the round table, which she had left rather abruptly in the middle of Arthur's introductions. "Tarra! Wait!"

Tarra turned around and faced him, "What?"

"Where are you going?" he asked.

"None of your business," she answered curtly.

"You can't just leave."

"Why not?"

"I have known Tristan for over fifteen years now and never once did I know that he had a sister. Yet here you are."

"So?"

"So! Haven't you any sort of explanation? There wasn't exactly a warm welcome between the two of you."

"I have no explanation to give," answered Tarra, "We met once a long time ago, but I was too young to really remember it. Now please leave me alone."

This answer, however, was an outright lie, for Tarra had very distinct memories of the day she met Tristan because that was the same day she both found and lost her mother. From the time she had first been able to talk, Tarra asked about her mother. She knew she was not born to the gypsy woman who took care of her and her curiosity about where she came from was insuppressible. Another one of the gypsy women, however, knew whose family Tarra had come from because she had seen the village boy who left her in the forest.

When Tarra was about five years old, they returned to the woods that surrounded the village where Tarra was born and the gypsy woman showed Tarra to the house of her mother. Tarra ran excitedly to the cottage and opened the door, "Mother! Mother! I'm home! I have returned!" A woman sat in a chair with needlework, which she dropped at the sight of Tarra. All color retreated from her face. Then she grabbed a broom from the corner and charged at little Tarra, swinging it at her head and chasing her from the house. "Get out! Get out you demon! You devil! Get out!"

Tarra ran around to the side of the house and peeked her head up high enough so that she could see in through the window. She watched as the woman, her mother, paced about the room in a state of hysterics, pulling frantically at the hem of her dress and at her hair and talking gibberish to herself. Tarra watched as her mother dug into a chest and pulled out a long rope. She watched as her mother tied the rope around her neck. She watched as her mother stood up on the table. And she watched as her mother jumped off and her feet did not hit the ground.


	5. Chapter 5

"Tarra? Tarra? Are you still with me?"

Tarra's eyes came into focus to meet Lancelot's as she shook off the memories she had tried so hard to forget. "Yes. Yes, I'm sorry," she answered, "What did you say?"

"I asked: Would you like to get a drink with me?" repeated Lancelot, wondering to what thoughts her mind had wandered.

"Oh, yes---I mean---no. I can't. I must go," she said in a distracted voice as her eyes darted around her as though searching for something she had lost.

"You just got here," replied Lancelot with his eyes wide and pleading. He certainly knew how to lay it on thick.

"Yes, and I fear I've already worn out my welcome. Good day---or---night, as it were," said Tarra as she quickly side-stepped the tall, dark, and, dare she say, handsome knight who stood before her. Suddenly, she felt a hand grip the back of her shirt collar pulling her back in the opposite direction. "I said no touching!" she screamed, trying to wriggle her way out of the knight's grip, "Let me go!"

"I'm not touching you. I'm touching your very unflattering, masculine attire," he said, still refusing to release her, "Now, you're coming down to the tavern, having a drink, and then you can leave first thing in the morning."

Clearly, this was not a negotiating matter. "Fine!" she yelled, as she at last wrenched herself from his unrelenting grip, "But I'm going on my own accord!"

She marched down to the tavern with Lancelot following close behind and sat down at one of the tables in a huff of exasperation. Lancelot joined her moments later with two mugs of ale, one of which he placed in front of her. "You expect me to drink _that_?" she asked indignantly, wrinkling up her nose as she smelt the strong, highly concentrated liquor.

"Well, if you're not up to the challenge---"

"Oh, no, I'll drink it," she said, "I'm going to regret it in the morning, but I'll drink it."

Lancelot noticed Arthur entering the tavern and left Tarra with her ale momentarily to speak with his commander. In the meantime, Tarra took a swig of the vile drink and grimaced at its pungency. Then she took another sip and found it to be at least bearable. After another sip, she thought to herself that it really was not half bad. Pretty soon, she was guzzling it quite happily wondering how in the world she had originally been so disgusted by it.

Lancelot approached Arthur and nodded to him in acknowledgement. "There you are," Arthur greeted, "I've been looking all over for you."

"I've had my hands a bit full," Lancelot replied, signaling over towards Tarra with his eyes.

Arthur understood his meaning, "I've been wanting to talk to you about that. Tristan seems to think she can't be trusted and, honestly, I'd rest more assured if I knew a bit more about her background. Long lost siblings don't just crawl out of the woodwork for no reason."

"I anticipated as much," Lancelot replied, "Why do you think I've been following her around?"

"Well---"

"Don't answer that," Lancelot said with a slight smirk, "Anyways, there is _something_ gone awry about that girl. I caught her trying to leave, but I convinced her to at least stay tonight. Perhaps we can reach some resolution or make some kind of discovery before then."

"We can only hope," answered Arthur, "Although, if she is being truthful and really does intend on leaving I suppose it makes little difference either way." Lancelot was struck with the realization at Arthur's words that his curiosity about this strange female undeniably surpassed that of his commander's. No, but this was a just natural curiosity and nothing important enough to dwell upon---right?

----------

Arthur and Lancelot returned to where Tarra sat and seated themselves on either side of her. Tarra looked hazily from one to the other, shrugged, and turned her attention back to her ale. She was not drunk---yet, but the table did seem slightly off balance and the soft, rustic colors of the tavern were beginning to blur.

She noticed that the three other knights she had abandoned at the round table: Gawain, Galahad, and Bors, had now joined their table, as well.

"So, Galahad," addressed Lancelot, "You seem to have sobered up a bit."

"What do you mean? I wasn't drunk," the young knight refuted, seeming somewhat offended. Then he turned to Tarra and a look of confusion crossed his face, "Who's that?"

"Oh, no, you weren't drunk at all," said Bors sarcastically, patting Galahad gruffly on the back.

"This is Tarra," Arthur said, making her introduction for her, "She is Tristan's sister."

"My condolences," replied Galahad, raising his glass to Tarra.

Tarra grinned in return, "You and I will get along splendidly, I think, Galahad." A man passed by their table with a basket of fruit, and Tarra stealthily swiped an apple. She took out her dagger and began slicing the fruit into neatly cut slithers.

Gawain laughed, "I'm beginning to see the resemblance."

Tarra stopped mid-bite and glared at Gawain. "Ha!" she scoffed, "I am nothing like---like---_him_!"

"Prove me wrong!" dared Gawain with a cocky smile.

"Well, for starters, I have more than ten words in my vocabulary," Tarra answered proudly.

"She has a point," Lancelot jested, leaning back and resting his arm on the back of Tarra's chair. Tarra fidgeted nervously, straightening her posture and sliding herself closer to the edge of the chair. From the corner of her eye, she could see that his eyes were fixed on her. His stare was like the desert sun beating against her back, and she hated that she was disarmed by it. The fact that someone, especially, a male someone was affecting her so was simply unacceptable. She turned with a raised eyebrow to the haughty knight and asked, "Finding everything to your liking?"

Her question did not shake Lancelot the slightest bit, and with a dashing grin, he replied, "Do you ask because you truly desire my appreciation of your constitution or because you desire to deny me of all dignity by forcing me to reveal my heart's most secret affections for you?"

Tarra rolled her eyes, "Sir, I fear I did not hear a bit of what you said for your words bore such little weight that they floated away into the night's sky before they could reach my ears."

Lancelot laughed, "I can see my flattery proves ineffective."

"You can't con a con-artist, my friend," Tarra said, "I may not have invented deception, but I have certainly perfected it."

"You wouldn't really be a woman if you hadn't," muttered Bors.

For Arthur, however, the conversation had taken an interesting turn, and he snatched at the present opportunity before it passed him by. "What kinds of experiences in conning have you had, Tarra?" he asked suspiciously.

The corner of Tarra's mouth turned up slyly, "Arthur, such a direct question leaves your honest character dangerously exposed, but alas I fear the ale is distorting my judgment, so I will simply disclose to you imprudently that I am a liar, cheat, thief, and an overall menace to society."

Now he was getting somewhere. Arthur raised an eyebrow, "Is that so?"

Tarra's eyes shot open as if in sudden realization of what she had said, "Yes, yes, but I've given it all up! Starting a new a life, that's what I'm doing."

"Don't con a fellow con-artist," Lancelot winked.

"As the sovereign leader of this country," Arthur said firmly, "I must advise against your causing such mischief _here._"

"Oh you needn't worry. Theft was not my motive in coming here," said Tarra; and that was the truth---mostly.

"That's good to hear," Arthur replied, then changed the subject, "But I reckon the same cannot be said about the motives which took you all the way to Arabia?

"Ah," said Tarra with a flicker of light in her eyes, "Now _there _is a story to tell."

"Mmm, I love a good story," said Gawain, propping his feet up on the table.

Tarra cleared her throat, adjusted herself in her seat, and began her tale, "As I stated before, I am an expert in the arts of deception and thievery. I'd lived my life employing these crafts in various undertakings of no certain consequence. I decided at last to test my skills on a grander scale; on the acquisition of a piece of the treasure of Bostra, the Arabian city I mentioned before. Now, the treasure was hidden in the inner most vault of the palace of the Sultan Arif of Bostra. Sultan Arif had progressed very much in age, but very little in wisdom. He was old and he was senile, but do not doubt for a second his absolute authority and leadership.

"Entering the palace undetected was no easy feat, but I won't bore you with the details of my ingenious act of evasion. I found the treasure piled high in the inner vault. I had my sack open, ready to pillage my loot, but just as I reached my hand out to one of those sparkling rubies, I heard a voice from behind me, 'Just what do you think you're doing?'

"Of course, you can imagine my terror at being caught trying to steal some of the most valuable treasure in the entire Roman Empire, but the fates were on my side that day for not a moment later did Sultan Arif himself stumble into the vault. He looked at me with his elderly, fogged over eyes, opened his arms to me, and said, 'Why! Sadah? Is that you? I have not seen you since you were but a small child! Look at you! So grown up!'

"Can you imagine my good fortune? The sultan thought I was the daughter of one of his distant, but favorite cousins and that I had come to visit him. The guard who had caught me in the vault tried to object, but the sultan laughed and called him a fool, 'Don't you think I know my own relatives? Silly child, getting lost in my grand palace and thinking not of asking for help in finding her way.' Of course, I saw no advantage to setting him straight, so for the next two years, I lived comfortably in the palace of Bostra as Sadah, the sultan's cousin's daughter."

"That's unbelievable!" exclaimed Gawain.

"And they did not expect you at all?" asked Arthur in awe at her story.

"Not at all," Tarra answered triumphantly.

"Very impressive," commented Lancelot with the same grin that never seemed to leave his face.

----------

"Arthur!" called a scolding voice from across the tavern that belonged to the queen, Guinevere, "I've been waiting for you!"

"If you'll excuse me," Arthur said, rising from the table, "It appears I am wanted elsewhere."

"Yeah, yeah," teased Bors, "We don't want your company anyway."

Not long after Arthur's departure, the other knights dispersed into their separate quarters, tired from the long day. Lancelot kept a close eye on Tarra who had found a spot on the wall where she could watch the sun rise. She was used to sleepless nights.

Tarra hugged her knees to her chest and stared out into the horizon, replaying all the day's events in her mind. What a mess she had made. Not only had her presence been discovered by the knights and her long lost half-brother, but she had also betrayed way too many details about her less than reputable character.

Yet, she could not shake the feeling that perhaps she had purposely sabotaged her own plans. When Lucia had uttered a name Tarra knew all too well, the name Tristan, as the second target of assassination, Tarra had seen it as fate presenting an opportunity to finally bury her past---literally. She had also seen the situation as a test for her lack of conscience, a test she was not completely sure she wanted to pass.

What if she could not do it? What if she simply did not have what it takes to become a murderer? Perhaps she should just leave as she had told Lancelot was her intention. A shiver ran up her spine. She did not want to know what horrors awaited her if she did not fulfill her mission. She was in over her head, and there was no going back. Tarra drew in a deep breath of resolution. She could do it. She had to.

The sun had peeked its head above the distant hills when a figure beneath the wall suddenly caught Tarra's attention. Tarra recognized the figure at once as Jillian, Tristan's lover. She watched as Jillian soundlessly slipped outside the gates and hurried briskly towards the edge of the forest. Tarra furrowed her eyebrows in puzzlement. Now what?


	6. Chapter 6

Tristan felt the morning sunlight dance across his eyelids. He rolled lazily over onto his side and reached his hand across the bed to find it deserted. He opened his eyes in confirmation of what the rest of his senses had already told him: he was alone. Jillian and Tristan had fallen asleep in each other's arms, but now he awoke to find her gone.

Tristan normally would not have been concerned except that it was not like Jillian to rise at the crack of dawn and he could not shake the sinking feeling in his stomach as though it were being weighted down with rocks. There was a kind of static in the air and a tingle that ran through his nerves that told him that something was not right. The silent stillness of the early morning was daunting and he wished for the company of any kind of noise or commotion.

Tristan rose from his bed and quickly dressed in his usual, simple attire. He then left his quarters and headed purposefully towards the library where Jillian was known to spend much of her spare time. He had never known anyone who could spend so much time reading. Someday he intended to learn and see what all the fuss was about. Perhaps Jillian would teach him. The library door creaked open, but Tristan found it deserted except for the musty smell of the leather-bound books.

He sighed and continued his search outside in the main square. Merchants pulled their carts along, the wheels grinding against the hard, stone ground. Tristan merged in and out of the lanes of venders preparing for the morning market. A little ways ahead, he noticed Bors conversing with an old man selling healing spices.

"No! I told you! The last time you sold me that green stuff it took away the headache, but I couldn't keep a bit of food down the rest of the day," Bors said adamantly to the vender.

"Perhaps," the vender answered pointing to Bors' mid-section, "That is not such a bad thing!"

"Why you little---" threatened Bors, grabbing the old man by the shirt collar.

"Only doing my job, sir," said the vender, raising his hands in a truce, "Spices for health! Spices for longevity!"

"Worry about your own longevity, old man. Why I oughtta---"

"Bors," interrupted Tristan, "Have you seen Jillian?"

"No!" cried Bors in exasperation, "Why would I have seen her?"

"Just wondering," Tristan shrugged, then added, "Do something about that hangover."

"I would if this little weasel would sell me something that works!" yelled Bors, turning his attention back to the vender.

------------

It was not until her eyes fluttered open at the morning sun that Tarra realized she had fallen asleep. Her head was laid back uncomfortably against the cold, stone wall where she had seated herself the night before. She yawned and sat up straight, arching her back and stretching her arms. Tarra's head pounded in reminder of the past night spent at the tavern. The memory of her still unresolved dilemma made her stomach lurch---alright, maybe it was not _only_ the memory that was making her stomach lurch. She made a mental note to never drink ale ever again.

Tarra rose from her unconventional sleeping place and made her way down to the square that was now swarming with merchants. Everywhere she looked venders pushed their carts in opposing directions. She passed by an old man selling healing spices, and skillfully slipped a bottle of green herbs into her pocket without him noticing. 'That should help with the hangover,' she thought.

A burly man with arms like tree branches that dangled at his sides brushed past Tarra's shoulder causing her to recoil at his touch. Tarra shuddered and rubbed her hand over the top of her shoulder. He had not hurt her, but the contact had been like a loud clamor that continued to echo long after the fact. The market was growing too busy and crowded for her, so she made her way to a corner where she would be out of all the traffic.

She leaned sideways against the outer wall of a building and fumbled with the bottle of herbs in her hand. She pinched a bit of the green flakes between her thumb and finger and tossed it down her throat. She was used to not having the luxury of liquid refreshment.

Out of nowhere, a cloud of dark curls whizzed past Tarra and ducked behind her, causing her heart to stop mid-beat in her startled state. A very alarmed knight crouched between her and the wall, using her as a human shield. He squatted in his hiding space keeping perfectly still and peeking his head out from behind Tarra's legs.

"Lancelot, what on earth do you think you're doing?" she demanded.

"Shhh!" he whispered, "Shhh! Don't move!"

Tarra rested her hands on her hips, "And why is it exactly that I'm not moving?"

"Are you always so inquisitive? Please just stand still! She'll see me!"

"Who?"

"_Her!_"

"You'll have to be more descriptive. Your mother? Your sister? Your whore?" Tarra replied sarcastically. At that moment, however, she noticed a woman in a tightly strung corset that gave her bosom a most unnatural lift sauntering in their direction. "Nevermind," said Tarra, "I've ascertained that it is the third."

"Has she seen me?" Lancelot asked nervously.

"Not _yet_," answered Tarra, waving her hand and calling the woman over to her. "Excuse me, miss! This man here is looking for you!"

"You are so dead," Lancelot muttered grudgingly.

"Oh you'll thank me some day," Tarra laughed, deserting the knight to the company of his admirer, "I'm not one to stand in the way of true love."

As Tarra wandered off very pleased with herself, she turned to look over her shoulder. The provocatively dressed woman had her arms laced around Lancelot's neck with her long, slender fingers combing through his curly locks, "Why don't you ever come for me, love? I've missed you…" Lancelot grimaced, his dark eyes glaring in Tarra's direction. Tarra laughed. That stunt had worked better than any herbal medicine could.

Tarra still had not wiped the grin off her face when Gawain called her over to where he, Galahad, and Tristan stood.

"What are you so happy about?" asked Gawain curiously.

"What are you still _doing here_?" muttered Tristan.

Her smile faded. "Don't worry. I was just leaving," she said coldly.

"Oh, don't listen to him," said Galahad waving off Tristan with his hand. Tristan gritted his teeth.

"No, no," Tarra replied, "I think coming was probably a mistake. I should go."

"Good riddance," Tristan grumbled under his breath.

"Good morning everyone," greeted Arthur cheerily. Tristan jerked his head around at Arthur's approach.

"Arthur," he addressed his commander, "You haven't seen Jillian, have you?"

The lines on Arthur's forehead crinkled in concern. "No, I haven't. Everything is alright I hope?"

"None of us have seen her all morning," interjected Galahad, "We're starting to worry. It's not like her."

"We were planning to go out and search for her," added Gawain.

Tarra shifted her weight awkwardly to her other foot. "I, umm, I---saw her last night," she mumbled, staring at a spot on the ground. She knew she was going to regret getting involved in this.

"You did? Where?" asked Arthur, wide-eyed and hopeful.

"No you didn't," Tristan scoffed.

"Yes. I did," Tarra answered defiantly, "I saw her leave the wall and head into the forest."

"Why would she do that?"

"How should I know? Did you two have a fight?"

"We don't fight."

"Oh, right. That would require words."

"You've known me one day. That does not give you the right---"

"To tell the truth?"  
"Stick to what you're good at."

"How about we stick to getting to the bottom of where Jillian disappeared to?" Arthur interrupted with his voice of reason.

"I already _told_ you!" answered Tarra, "Are you daft?"

"I was about to ask you that same question," interrupted Lancelot as he joined the group, making his usual self-important entrance. "I cannot believe you left me alone with her," he added in an astonished tone.

"Aw, Lancelove, I thought that's what you wanted."

"Like hell you did!" he answered angrily, "And don't call me that!"

"Lancelove?"

"Stop!"

"What the hell am I interrupting?" asked Bors, the last to join the gathering.

"Tarra left me alone with _you know who_," said Lancelot.

"Damn," Bors responded.

"You can't stand within ten feet of that girl without catching fleas," said Gawain, knowing exactly of whom they spoke.  
"At least you hope they're fleas," added Galahad, also acquainted with subject of the conversation.

Lancelot rubbed his neck and gave Tarra the most pathetic look he could muster. "Oh don't be so tragic about it," she teased.

"Alright, can we focus here for a minute?" interrupted Arthur's voice of reason once again, "Now, Tarra, do you think you can lead us in the direction that Jillian went?"

"What will I get out of it?" she asked cheekily.

"You'll get to avoid my knife slicing across your throat," Tristan threatened.

"Whose bedpan did you step in this morning?"

"Tarra!" boomed Arthur's voice, "Your help? Please?"

"Oh fine," she answered, "But only because I'm an obliging saint of a person and because you said please."

"Thank you," replied Arthur, "Now let's be off to the stables and find you a horse. There's no time to waste."

"So Arthur, have you caught the fleas too?" asked Tarra bluntly.

"Excuse me?" Arthur replied, shocked by her question.

"Oh nothing," said Tarra, "I heard they were going around is all."

"We do _not _have fleas!" stammered Galahad.

"I hope you at least got your money back," Tarra jested.

"With this face, my dear, I don't need to pay for women," said Lancelot vainly.

"Of course not," answered Tarra, "Any woman would pity your repulsiveness enough to grant you the charity of her bed."

"Including you?"

"I'm not any woman."

"I believe it."

-------------

In the stable, Arthur, the knights, and Tarra sat on their horses chuckling as Bors tugged at his reigns trying to get his horse under control. His usual horse had just given birth to a colt, and the substitute they had found for him was significantly smaller in weight and muscle.

"Damn horse," muttered Bors trying to get control of the reigns.

"Ah, the woes of living the good life," laughed Gawain.

"What the hell's that supposed to mean?" demanded Bors.

"I think he's referring to the fact you've been getting a little soggy around the midsection there, old man," teased Lancelot.

"Oh, will you get off my back with that?" Bors grumbled.

"Strange, I believe the horse was thinking the same thing," commented Tarra.

"Why don't you let us carry some of your weapons?" suggested Galahad, relieving Bors of some of his weaponry.

Tarra laughed, "You know, this reminds me of the time I traveled with the Sultan Arif to the Holy City. About half way through the journey, I noticed the Sultan still on top of his camel un-strapping all his belongings from its back and piling it into his arms as he continued riding along the trail. I said, 'Sultan, what are you doing? Why are you holding all of that?' He answered, 'I thought I would give this poor animal a break from having to carry so many of my heavy things.'"

The knights all laughed heartily at her story except for Tristan who simply mumbled, "Leave the fiction to the poets. You have no gift for it."

Tarra answered slyly, "Ah, but what is poetry if not eloquently worded fiction, and what is fiction if not a poetic lie? I assure you I have a gift for _that_."

"You visited Jerusalem?" asked Arthur, hoping to change the subject.

"Yes," answered Tarra simply, "It was terribly dull."

Arthur laughed, somewhat appalled, "I would love to go to Jerusalem some day."

"You're not missing much," she replied apathetically.

Despite their teasing and bantering, the knights were genuinely concerned about Jillian. As they left the stables, they each darted concerned looks at Tristan who, despite his ever placid expression, they knew to be very distressed by Jillian's disappearance. Jillian never left the wall alone or without informing them of where she was going. The knights badgered and taunted each other as though everything were normal, but they all had the same feeling that something was terribly wrong.


	7. Chapter 7

Sorry for another kind of depressing chapter. Also, I sort of changed my mind about how involved I wanted Tarra to be with the events surrounding Jillian. I hope that everything in this chapter makes sense and I haven't completely butchered the continuity. Thanks so much to all the readers and reviewers!

---------------------

"Tarra, are you sure we are headed in the right direction?" Arthur asked after several hours on the forest trail.

"Yes," replied Tarra confidently, "Now, if we take a sharp left here---"

"Alright, that's it," spoke an exasperated Gawain, "We've been turning left for the past three hours! Am I the only even slightly intelligent person here who realizes what that means?"

"We're going in circles," answered Galahad with a sigh.

"Exactly!" Tarra affirmed, "Good work Gawain! Now, come on. Let's be on our way then."

"Tarra, please, this really is not a matter to be taken lightly---" said a hesitant Arthur, reluctant to follow her wayward directions.

"Who's taking it lightly?" she asked in protest to his insinuation.

"Look," interjected Lancelot, "You said you saw which direction Jillian ran into the forest, but what makes you think you know which direction she took after that?"

"I don't," Tarra replied simply.

Gawain threw his hands up in exasperation, "Then what are we following you for?"

Tarra let out a sigh, "Gawain have you ever been fishing? Don't answer that. It's a rhetorical question. But when you go fishing, do you row your boat frantically after the fish? Of course not."

"I see what you're driving at," said Lancelot, "but you're forgetting the most important part of fishing: bait."

"As intriguing of a metaphor as this is, do I really need to point out how completely irrelevant it is to the situation at hand?" asked Arthur impatiently.

"On the contrary!" objected Tarra, "It is completely relevant! Lancelot brings up an important point, however, that without bait, a fish that does not want to be caught will, in effect, not be caught."

"I am so incredibly confused," Galahad interjected with a sigh.

"Allow me to speak plainly," said Tarra, "Now, I've been thinking long and hard about this, and I think to myself, 'Why would Jillian take off and not tell you where she was going?' Now I may be a simpleton and a common fool, but I suspect the answer to that question is this: _because she doesn't want you know_!"

"So what then?" asked Gawain, "This is nothing but sabotage? Leading us in the wrong direction on purpose?"

"Who said anything about the wrong direction? This is where I saw Jillian enter the forest and beyond that, you're just going to have to trust me."

"Tarra," said Arthur, his voice grave and severe, "Jillian is a dear friend to us all and she is _pregnant_. These woods are a dangerous place, so you must understand that it is of the utmost urgency that we find her."

Tarra looked Arthur straight in the eyes with a fierce kind of confidence and said in an unwavering voice, "Trust me."

Arthur sighed in compliance, for what else could he do? The forest was vast, extensive, and filled with woad villages both friendly and unfriendly. To find one woman in its continuum without the slightest hint or trace of her would be impossible at best. Tristan, however, was having his own thoughts quite to the contrary. He urged his horse forward and broke from the rest of the group.

Arthur turned to him in concern, "Where are you going?"

"I'm riding ahead," Tristan muttered over his shoulder, "I'll find her myself."

Arthur sighed as he watched Tristan vanish into the trees. The knight's decision came as no surprise to his commander. Tristan had never been connected to another human being the way he was connected with Jillian. Tristan was one of those rare people who are so complete in their person and unchanging in their mind that it is as if every essence of their being found its place inside them at birth. They are not born as soft clay like so many us who are molded into what we become, but they are born as sculptures already shaped and formed into their final pose, completely unalterable by anyone or anything.

Tristan had never needed the company of anyone in his life, which was the highest compliment he could have paid to Jillian. He wanted her in his life because he loved her, and the compliment she paid him in return was that she did not try to change him. She loved him and she accepted him. Perhaps there had been something Tristan needed after all.

"Stubborn fool," muttered Tarra as she watched Tristan ride off into the forest.

"Why don't we stop here and regroup, eh?" suggested Bors, "Just for a couple minutes."

"I think that's a wise idea," Arthur replied, dismounting from his horse. The others followed suit and climbed down from their horses, stretching their legs. Lancelot followed quickly behind Tarra who had left her horse and was now stomping off into the trees. He could hear her mumbling to herself, "Fine! Don't listen to me! See if I care. Why should I know what I'm talking about? But just you wait and see…" She picked up a rock and threw it violently against a tree trunk. She paused for a moment with the realization of the pleasure the act had brought her, so she picked up another rock and threw it against the same tree. She repeated the action multiple times before Lancelot interrupted from behind, "Be careful or it might decide to fight back."

Tarra turned sharply to him, still holding a rock tightly in her grasp, "He thinks I'm useless."

"Who? Tristan? He thinks lots of things are useless."

"I mean, it's not that I care or anything. I don't care what he thinks of me or that he hates me. I don't care."

"Of course not."

"I just don't like it when people think I don't know what I'm doing. You all think I'm crazy."

"Do you know what you're doing?"

"Of course I do. I always do."

"Alright then. Put the rock down and let's go back with the others."

It was not but a few minutes after Lancelot and Tarra returned to the rest of the group that a mysterious but familiar figure emerged from the forest. Tarra glanced smugly in Lancelot's direction and Lancelot gave her a quizzical glance in return.

"Merlin!" gasped Arthur at the approaching man with the large staff and blue-painted face.

"Arthur," greeted Merlin with a solemn expression.

"I'm surprised to see you," stammered Arthur, not particularly sure what to say at this strange meeting.

"There's no time for talk," answered Merlin, "Come, follow quickly. There is something you must see."

Arthur nodded and he and the rest of the convoy followed Merlin through the forest until they reached a small village in the middle of a clearing. Straw huts sat scattered about in a kind of circle and the native people who resided in the village looked up from their everyday activities to take notice of the intruders. An older woman emerged from one of the huts. She scuttled over to Merlin and whispered something in his ear.

"Where is the scout?" Merlin asked, referring to Tristan, "Is he among you?"

"No, he's not," replied Arthur in his commanding voice, "What is the meaning of this?"

"It's Jillian," Merlin explained, "She is here."

"What?" gasped Galahad.

"Where?" asked Gawain.

"Please, show us where she is," said Arthur.

"She will see no one," Merlin replied, "She calls out in her sleep, but only for the scout. I'm afraid the presence of anyone else only upsets her."

Arthur shook his head in distress; then, looking around, he noticed something amiss. "Where's Tarra?" he asked.

Lancelot spun his head around, "She was here just a second ago…"

-------------------

Tarra entered the hut soundlessly where Jillian lay sleeping on a bed of straw. One hand rested on her stomach and the other on her forehead. She stirred in her sleep, her breath hardly more than a wheeze. Tarra slid silently next to Jillian and sat watching over her. Jillian's eyes fluttered open and stared dazedly at Tarra.

"It's you," she whispered.

"I didn't know that you'd remember me," Tarra answered.

"You look very much like your brother," said Jillian.

"Half-brother," Tarra corrected. Jillian gave her a faint, sad smile. "Jillian…" said Tarra, "What happened? When I found you in the forest last night, you had fainted. Are you---alright?"

Jillian's eyes darted around the room, suddenly filling with tears. She shook her head as though shaking a thought out of her mind and turned back to Tarra, "He told me, you know---what happened between you two."

"Oh…" was all that Tarra could think to say.

"Yes," whispered Jillian, "Yes, you should have heard him. He'd never opened up like that before, ever---especially not about---his family. And then do you know what he said?"

"What?"

"He said he was glad---glad because---because soon---soon we'll have…" Her voice trailed off and her eyes once again flooded with tears.

"Soon you'll have what, Jillian?"

"Nothing," she whispered.

"Jillian," said Tarra, her voice strong and still, "What happened?"

Jillian looked at Tarra with searching eyes and whispered only, "It's gone." Tarra understood. She paused a moment and was about to stand to leave when Jillian suddenly drew in a sharp, deep breath, sitting up suddenly in her bed. Her eyes opened wide in terror at Tarra and she cried, "_I felt it die!_"

"You…what…?"

"Tarra, you understand it, don't you?"

"What?"

"Death."

"Yes, Jillian. I understand it."

"I felt it," Jillian said softly, "Before there was even blood. I felt cold---and alone---and I knew it was gone."

"I'm sorry."

"Is Tristan here?"

"No," Tarra answered, "But he'll be here soon."

"That's good."

"Yes."

"I thought I could save it. Ha---wasn't that silly?"

"No. It wasn't silly. Is that why left the wall?"

"Merlin---he can do many things---impossible things. When I felt it---I knew, you see---so I left, and I headed into the forest. I reached the trees and I felt the blood run down my leg, so I hurried. But there was so much pain, so soon I was crawling. When I could crawl no longer, I fell. I heard your voice…and then…I woke up, and I was here. I suppose I have you to thank for that."

"It was nothing," Tarra replied humbly, "It's just lucky I found Merlin, that's all. He's the one who brought you here. I didn't even know where he took you. The knights---they think I spent the night at the wall. I thought it was better they didn't know and that they shouldn't come until you were ready. But Merlin said to bring them into the forest and that he'd come and find us. So anyways, here we are."

Jillian looked at Tarra with eyes that swelled with gratitude, but soon clouded over with anxiety. "Tarra, what am I going to do? I don't know what to do. How do I tell him---Tristan? How---how do I---how---"

"Jillian, you're---you're going to be ok. And maybe next time---"

"No. Merlin made me well, but to do that, he had to make it so that---so that I can't…"

Tarra shifted uncomfortably where she sat. She did not know what to do either. She could not take Jillian's pain away. She could not bring Jillian's baby back. She felt helpless. Suddenly, however, she found her lips moving through the motions of a story. "You know," she began, "When I was in Arabia I lived in the palace of the Sultan Arif. Now, as you might know, it is customary for a sultan to have many, many wives. At the time that I knew him, he had progressed much in age, so as you can imagine, he could no longer satisfy his wives as he might have liked. Because the sultan did not take his throne until late in his life and because he had no wives before his reign, he had no offspring whom he could call his heirs. He so desperately wanted a son, though. Despite his age-induced celibacy, it came to be that one of his wives swelled with a child inside her stomach. The sultan, turning a deaf ear to those who spoke of secret trysts in the garden and the wife's betrayal, rejoiced at the news that he was finally to have a son and heir to his throne. He exclaimed, 'What a magnificent and talented wife I have who can grow life from a seed without the sprinkling of water!' After she gave birth to a healthy boy, he called her the miracle-worker and bestowed on her all the greatest gifts of the palace. I never saw him happier than when he held that little boy in his arms."

Jillian raised a skeptical eyebrow at Tarra. "Is that supposed to make me feel better?" she asked. Tarra laughed. Her story had perhaps been completely inappropriate, but it was such a relief to see Jillian in an expression other than grief and despair.

"I'm sorry. I'm afraid I'm not very good at consoling people," Tarra admitted, "But just between you and me, I don't think the sultan was as senile as he'd have people believe."

"What do you mean?"

"Well he wanted a child so very badly and---despite the impossibility---he found a way. I just don't know if that was an act of senility."

"Tarra, if you're suggesting that I should---"

"Oh, I'm not suggesting anything. I'm just babbling. Don't pay me any mind."

The door to the hut suddenly tore open and Tristan stood at the entrance, his face completely drained of all color. His eyes locked with Jillian's as he stood motionless, not even daring to breathe. Tarra got up slowly from where she sat and crept silently outside to give them their privacy, closing the door behind her.


	8. Chapter 8

Sorry for such a long wait! I had a crazy busy week. Here's the next chapter! Hope you enjoy!

-------------------------

Terror. Yes, that was it. That was the word; not worry nor distress nor concern, but terror. Tristan stood tall and erect in the entryway, his mouth an expressionless, horizontal line across his face. But his eyes, oh! His eyes held pure, unadulterated terror. For a moment that stretched on like an eternity, there was no motion in the room but the trembling of Jillian's hands. Their only contact was the stare that they held between them. Everything else was separated by an impenetrable wall of air.

Jillian's eyes fixed on Tristan's foot as it took a slow, hesitant step forward. The other foot followed more eagerly and in what seemed like one swift, agile movement, the silent man drew himself beside her bed, running his hand through her hair and scanning her body for injury. Jillian's hands were still shaking and she felt dizzy from the suddenness that he had come upon her. She turned her face from him.

Tristan sat back, instantly retracting his hand to his side. He directed his gaze straight towards her, but her eyes refused to meet his. "What is it?" he asked urgently, a knot forming in his stomach that told him something was terribly wrong. He pressed his fingers beneath her chin and pulled her head to face him.

"Tristan---" she began, but the words would not form. She could feel what she wanted to say, but she simply could not transmit it verbally. Instead, she found herself asking almost instinctively, "You wanted this, didn't you? Fatherhood, I mean?"

He sighed in relief, gliding his hand up to her cheek, "Is that what all this is about? Jillian, you know you can count on me. You don't have to be afraid."

She tilted her head away from his caress and said, "I know that I can count on you. What I want to know is if you _desire _to be a father. Last night you said that you were happy because soon you would have a family that brought you something other than hate. But, I wonder, is that really how you see it? That nothing could be worse than the family you already have, so why not? Why not become a father? Or do you want this? Really truly want this?"

"Jillian, please, what brought this on?" he asked, avoiding her question.

For the first time, Jillian looked Tristan square in the face and this time it was her eyes that were filled with terror. "Can't you see that it is gone?" she cried with tears streaming down her face, "It's gone and I'm sorry! I'm so, so sorry!" Her body convulsed as she buried her head in her hands, violently sobbing.

She felt Tristan's strong hands grip her shoulders. "Shhh. Shhh," he hushed, "It's going to be ok. You're alright. That's all that matters."

Her body lurched inside his grasp for a moment until she unexpectedly bolted upright at a sudden realization and turned sharply to Tristan. Her face was calm, dangerous, and her eyes were blazing. "Is it?" she asked, her voice shaking with intense emotion, "Is that _all _that matters? Answer me honestly, did you want this child?"

"It's of no consequence now. Please, lay back and rest…" he said, still not answering her question.

Jillian's hand swung suddenly at full force across Tristan's face so swiftly that he did not even realize she had slapped him until he felt the burn on his cheek. "_I _wanted this child!" she screamed, "It mattered to _me_! Maybe it's going to be ok for you, but it's not ok for me! It's not! But it _will _be ok for you, won't it? I can't have anymore children, so you don't have anything to worry about anymore! You think you've beaten the world at its own game by locking yourself in from the rest of us, making people think you don't need anyone, but really you just don't care! You're selfish and self-centered and you don't care about anyone else! You threw away our child just like you threw away Tarra!"

Tristan clenched his jaw at the provocation, "Oh, I'm the selfish one? Is that it? Even with the sacrifices I was prepared to make!"

"Sacrifices? What sacrifices?"

"You want honesty? Alright. Maybe fatherhood wasn't exactly in my plans for the future. But I didn't have a choice in the matter! Did you ever think of that? But I was willing to try---for you!"

"Oh! Oh, I see! You didn't have a choice in the matter, but I did? Is that it? This pregnancy was some kind of conscious decision I made at some point, right? So I climbed on top of myself and planted your seed. Is that what you're saying?"

She had a point. Tristan could do nothing but sit still in a stunned state of bewilderment. He knew that everything he said was wrong in Jillian's ears, but everything he said was also honest. Above all things, he believed in honesty. "I would have loved our child," he whispered, and that was the truth.

Jillian drew in an exhausted breath and her face softened. "I loved our child already from the moment I knew it existed," she whispered, "And I still do."

Upon hearing those words, his heart broke for her and he regretted every bit of harshness he had shown her. "I can't imagine the hurt you're feeling," he replied gently, trying to soothe her, "but can't you see what a blessing it is that you're alright? That you're safe?"

"Hurt? I can't even feel to hurt! I feel numb!" she cried. "To feel numb," she repeated, laughing sardonically at her own words, "Such a paradox. To feel the lack of feeling."

Tristan felt an intense guilt rising within him. He had been honest, but he had also been insensitive and cruel. "Can you ever forgive me?" he mumbled, feeling too guilty even to make eye contact.

Jillian sighed, "You were being honest, and I think deep inside I knew that you felt that way."

"You must know that it was not a lack of love for you, but a lack of faith in myself that drove those feelings."

"You are so wrong in your judgment of yourself," she said, "You would have made a wonderful father."

"If only…"

"Yes. If only..."

----------------------------

Meanwhile, while the dialogue between Jillian and Tristan unfolded, Tarra had exited the hut and was immediately met by Arthur. He had that look of appreciation on his face that always frightened her because of the rarity with which she ever received it from anyone. Tarra cleared her throat as Arthur stood before her. "I wouldn't go in there if I were you," Tarra said, "They're likely to be kissing or cuddling or other such vulgar, repulsive acts of endearment."

"It was actually you who I was looking for," Arthur said.

"A poor alternative, I'm afraid. I exude vulgarity," she replied with a smirk.

"Are you ever serious?"

"Not if I can help it."

Arthur smiled, "Well, I just wanted to say that Merlin told me what you did for Jillian and---well---"

"Arthur, please," interrupted Tarra, "I fear you're about to turn me into some kind of heroic figure and I assure you it's the last thing that I deserve."

"I take it you don't accept gratitude, either then?"

"I accept what I deserve," she said, then added with a grin, "and steal everything else."

"Tarra!" called Galahad who was sitting with the rest of the knights around the fire. The sky had grown dark with night, and there was a chill in the air. "Come join us!" he called.

"Yes," added Lancelot, "Come sit by me." He patted his hand on the empty spot on the log next to him.

Tarra strode confidently over to where the knights sat. "And why would I want to sit next to you?" she asked Lancelot.

"Because you're madly in love with me, obviously," Lancelot teased.

"Obviously," Tarra replied sarcastically, rolling her eyes.

"Don't listen to him," said Gawain, "He's delusional."

Tarra bravely took the seat next to Lancelot. "I'll sit here," she said, "but know that I'd sooner fall in love with the backside of a horse than your sorry self."  
"That can be arranged!" Lancelot jibed, whistling to his horse that stood lazily tied to a nearby tree.

"How is Jillian?" Gawain asked seriously, changing the subject, "Is she alright? We heard that she, well, that she lost---"

"She did," Tarra replied quickly, relieving Gawain of the duty of forming the awkward words, "But she'll be ok."

"A shame. A damn shame--about the baby, I mean," commented Bors dryly, "Vanora almost lost one of ours once. Number 4, I think. The thing came out, but it wouldn't take in a breath. Scared Vanora to death. Always a damn shame to lose a child. Why are you all looking at me funny?"

"It's just strange to see you demonstrate anything resembling compassion towards an offspring, even your own, that's all," replied Galahad.

"That's because they're mine," Lancelot teased.

Arthur approached the fire, seeming completely oblivious to their laughter at Lancelot's jibe. His face was set in its usual cool, commanding countenance. "We'll camp here tonight," he declared, "And return to the wall in the morning."

"Arthur, what's your opinion on undergarments?" Tarra asked suddenly out of nowhere.

The question blindsided Arthur. "Excuse me?" he asked, looking as if something had just smacked him between the eyes.

"Sorry," she replied, "But something needed to wipe that dull, serious look off your face for once." Arthur's face contorted into a confused, quizzical look. "Eh, it's an improvement, at least," Tarra commented.

The knights abandoned the fire for the moment to unload their camping supplies from their horses. The night sky had effectively driven away the setting sun, and the only light left came from the crackling fire and the full moon above. While the knights remained occupied and distracted with unloading their effects, Tarra slipped off into the woods. She had some serious thinking to do.

There was a light, cool breeze that swept around her as she trudged between the trees. She could no longer hear the muffled sounds that echoed from the camp, but instead heard the rustling of the leaves and the crickets' sonorous chirping. She stopped for a moment, breathing in her surroundings, and then began her pacing. She probably looked like a crazy person, but she didn't care. It wasn't like there was anyone there to see her.

_'Alright, Tarra,'_ she thought to herself, _'What's the plan of action? We need a plan here. Stop getting so involved with these people and figure out your course of action! You gotta pull it together right this very instant! Now, if you're going to do something, you'll have to do it quick. We're out here in the middle of the woods, so it's the perfect opportunity. A much more ideal location than at the wall, that's for sure. Now, it's pretty clear there's nothing to be done with Tristan. That situation has gotten way too complicated. But you still have a chance with Arthur. Now then, a plan. Wait until they're all asleep, then run off with his head into the forest. See? It's so simple. Lucia and Barak can't be too angry with you as long as you've done that much. And you can always come back for Tristan. Yes, this is a good plan. Why are you trembling? Pull it together, Tarra. What's the big deal? You're a thief. What's the difference if you steal gold or lives? It's the same basic principle. Stop shaking!'_

Tarra could feel a clump rising in her throat, so she swallowed hard. She wiped her sweaty palms on her thighs and felt for her dagger. She drew in a deep breath and looked around her. Wait a second, where was she? She had walked so far and had been pacing in so many different directions that she had completely lost track of the direction in which she had come. '_Damnit!_' she cursed at herself.

Tarra paused for a moment, studying her bearings. She scanned the trees for anything that she recognized or that looked familiar. '_Blast it all,_' she thought, '_Why does every tree have to look the same?_' She drew in a deep breath, chose a random direction, and began walking. No, this couldn't be right. She turned around and began walking in the opposite direction.

Suddenly, she heard a familiar voice from behind her, "You really should pay more attention to where you're going on." Tarra groaned inwardly. Lancelot.


	9. Chapter 9

"Lancelot! What are you doing out here?" Tarra demanded.

"I was about to ask you the same question," Lancelot returned with a smirk, stepping out from behind a tree and sauntering towards her.

Alright, what was going on here? Tarra knew that Lancelot was a flirt---a big flirt---but he was exerting himself quite a bit for a man who had never in his life needed to put any effort into chasing a woman. Oh, but that was just absurd. Tarra wasn't even his type. As a matter of fact, when had Tarra ever been anyone's type?

Oh well. It didn't matter. What mattered was that _he _was certainly not _her _type. Perhaps there were some girls who fell weak at the knees, succumbing completely to his pompous air of self confidence and unnaturally perfect ringlets of curls, but she was not one of them. So what if he had soft, round, almond-shaped brown eyes and a smile that crept seductively up his face one corner at a time? That was not enough to tempt _her_.

Besides, she had more important things to think about like assassinating British kings, not to mention escaping afterward before she got caught. Her life was very complicated right now! Actually, her life was always complicated in a take-what-you-want-regardless-of-the-consequences kind of way. She wasn't the type to get distracted by a member of the opposite sex, especially one as full of himself as Lancelot. No, she had priorities and goals; and besides, romance was for fools who deluded themselves into believing that a person could actually care more about someone else than they cared about his or herself.

"I just wanted some time to think. That's all," Tarra said.

"Surely," Lancelot replied, continuing to advance towards her until only the slightest bit of distance separated them from each other, "And was your endeavor successful?"

Tarra gulped, "Endeavor?"

"Your thinking."

"Oh, right…yes…it was….successful, I mean."

"I'm glad," he whispered, closing his eyes and leaning his head down towards hers. Tarra snapped back with a jolt, backing away from him. He looked at her inquisitively. She reminded him of a vulnerable child with her arms crossed protectively over her chest. Tarra returned his gaze, locking her eyes with his as though her stare could influence him to remain where he was.

Lancelot straightened his posture, and for the first time she noticed how tall he was. "I'm sorry," he offered, trying to ascertain where to go from there or what his next move should be.

"For what?" Tarra asked, pretending to be oblivious to what had happened---to what had almost happened.

"For trying to---"

"Oh," Tarra interrupted quickly, "Forget about it." She then turned from him and played nervously with her hair. _'Pull yourself together!' _she thought, _'Of all the perilous, inescapable situations you've faced and THIS is the one that unnerves you?' _She felt Lancelot approaching her from behind; and though she could not see his face, she knew it wore a predatory grin.

"Do I make you nervous?" he teased.

"Don't flatter yourself!" Tarra answered with a crack in her voice that betrayed what she was trying so hard to hide. She added quickly in explanation, "I don't like people touching me, remember?"

Lancelot's smirk broadened. "What makes you think I'm going to touch you?"

Tarra turned to Lancelot with narrowed eyes. "You're an ass," she said.

Lancelot laughed, "Ok, ok. I'm sorry. Just---tell me---"

"What?"

He paused for a moment. "Why don't you let anyone touch you?"

Tarra furrowed her eyebrows. "I---I don't know," she said, "Why do you even care? I don't care. I've never even really thought about it."

"Never really thought about it?" Lancelot repeated in a way that demonstrated his astonishment.

"No, why would I have?"

Lancelot blinked, "Tarra, everyone gets touched at some point or another."

Tarra shrugged, "Not me."

"Well, of course not if you don't allow it."

"Why do you even want to know in the first place?"

"I just want to understand. Is that so horrible?"

"I don't think you could understand."

"Why not?"

"Because I don't think I even understand it myself!"

For the first time, Lancelot had no witty replies. She had completely stumped and puzzled him. Tarra sighed, "When I was a little girl, the gypsy woman who looked after me told me the myth of a greedy king who was granted one gift by the gods. She told the story much better than I can, but I'll try my best anyway. This gift of the gods was the power to turn anything into gold with a single touch. The greedy king touched a flower in his garden and it turned to gold. Then he touched a tree at the garden's edge and it turned to gold as well. When the king's daughter inquired about what he was doing, he told her of his gift and said, 'Isn't this wonderful?' His daughter, however, thought that it certainly was not wonderful. She was overwrought and said simply that she liked the flower as a flower and the tree as a tree. The king reached out to comfort her, but to his everlasting horror, she too turned to gold at his touch." _(see footnote)_

"Tarra," said Lancelot, "You surely can't believe that if you let people touch you, you would turn into gold."

"No, of course not," Tarra laughed, then added more seriously, "But I think it would change me all the same."

Lancelot stood stunned. She had rendered him utterly speechless. He cleared his throat, stumbling for words. "Well," he said finally, "I'd never want to change you."

Tarra let out an unforgiving laugh at him. "You really are a smooth-talker, aren't you?" she snickered.

"Don't pretend to be immune to my charms," Lancelot countered in his usual cheeky manner, "I see through your icy exterior."

Tarra raised an eyebrow. "If that were true, I'm afraid you would have discovered there's nothing beneath it."

Lancelot gave her a sly smile. "Hardly," he said.

They stood staring at each other awkwardly for a moment until Tarra finally broke the silence. "So," she began, "Should we be getting back to the others?"

"Yes," he answered, "That's probably a good idea." He watched as Tarra fidgeted awkwardly, scanning her surroundings and then looking back at him in anticipation. "You do know your way back, don't you?" he asked provokingly.

"Of course I do!" said Tarra adamantly, "It's---well—it's this way." Tarra pointed in a random direction and treaded ahead at that bearing.

Lancelot followed close behind with an amused look on his face. After several minutes, Tarra stopped and spun her head around, studying her entire perimeter at a glance. "Are you sure you know where you're going?" Lancelot asked.

Tarra bit her lip. She never liked to admit when she was wrong, but at the same time, she was completely clueless as to where she was or where she was headed. "You really should pay closer attention to your surroundings," Lancelot teased.

"I'm not lost!" she protested, "But if you're so confident, why don't _you _lead the way!"

"I will!" responded Lancelot. She watched as his eyes skimmed along the line of trees and his face twisted in deep thought.

Tarra smirked. "You really should pay closer attention to your surroundings," she mimicked.

"Very funny," he grumbled, "I'll have you know I know exactly where I am going."

"Is that so?" asked Tarra mockingly, putting her hands on her hips, "By all means, show me!"

"Gladly!" Lancelot countered and began walking in the opposite direction that Tarra had lead him.

This time, Tarra followed close behind, taunting him. "Ah yes," she said, "This is clearly the right direction. I recognize that tree over there. You know, the one with the green leaves."

"You're not helping," muttered Lancelot.

"Would a compass help?" Tarra inquired.

"Yes! Immensely!" he answered in eager anticipation.

"Oh," she responded coolly, "It's too bad we don't have one then."

"You're incorrigible."

"Thank you!"

Lancelot rolled his eyes and let out a sigh. Tarra found herself trying to suppress a smile that kept crawling across her face, a smile whose source she could not quite pinpoint. "So Lancelot," she said nonchalantly, "We've talked about me. Now it's your turn. Pray tell, sir, why are you the way you are?"

Lancelot laughed, "To answer that question I would have to first inquire as to how it is that I am exactly?"

Could a more perfect opportunity have presented itself? "Well let's see," Tarra responded provokingly, "There's arrogant, egotistical, pompous, pretentious, vain, profligate, over-confident---have I left anything out?"

"You certainly have!" answered Lancelot, "What about dashing, handsome, charming, irresistible, fetching, charismatic, shrewd, courageous---"

"You're proving my point."

"Just being honest," he said with a laugh and a shrug of the shoulders.

"You don't take anything seriously, do you?" she asked.

Lancelot grinned. "We're much alike in that respect don't you think?"

Tarra smiled suspiciously in return. "If you say so."

Lancelot and Tarra trudged ahead in that same general direction for a good half hour until Lancelot suddenly ducked behind a tree with an alarmed look on his face. "Shhh!" he warned, putting a finger up to his lips and motioning Tarra over to his side. Tarra obliged, hastening over to where Lancelot stood.

"What?" she whispered, peeking over his shoulder to catch sight of what they were hiding from.

"Saxons!" Lancelot whispered back with urgency. It was then that Tarra noticed Raywold the Saxon wearing that same fur covering that made him look like a giant, overstuffed squirrel.

"Curse whoever taught him to swim!" Tarra muttered to herself, remembering how she'd thrown him overboard on her crossing to Briton.

"Beg pardon?" said Lancelot, confused.

"Long story."

Raywold stood authoritatively, surrounded by ten other Saxons dressed in the same outdated caveman attire. They appeared to be in some kind of conference, huddled together in deep discussion.

"They're going to attack the village!" Lancelot said suddenly.

"What? How do you know that?" asked Tarra.

"Come!" ordered Lancelot, ignoring her question, "If we hurry, we can beat them there!"  
"But you don't even know where you're going!" Tarra protested.

"It can't be far now," responded Lancelot, "Come on! We have to warn them!" With that, he took off hastily into the trees, Tarra following close behind him. They could not have been running for more than a few seconds when they heard a voice shouting after them, "You there! Stay where you are!" The sounds of trampling Saxon feet and clamoring Saxon weapons grew louder at their backs. To Tarra's dismay, Lancelot suddenly stopped in his tracks, drawing the two twin swords he carried on his back.

"Go!" he cried to her, "I'll stall them. Go! Warn the others!"

Tarra paused for a moment simply staring at him in awe. "Go!" he repeated. She hesitated only a split second more and then took off running into the trees. She looked over her shoulder once to see Lancelot bravely engaging the ominous Saxons in combat and quickly picked up her pace.

So there she was, racing off to the rescue of those that she either didn't give a damn about or that she was supposed to have killed in the first place. She wondered how in the world her plans had gotten so off course. She swore that after this ordeal was over, she was going to take a nice, long vacation---perhaps someplace warm. She couldn't take this rainy, cool weather much longer.

Oh, damn it all! Lancelot could be dead by now, and she was thinking about the weather! It wasn't that she cared about Lancelot or anything---of course she didn't---but he had better survive or else everyone would blame her for abandoning him. Yes, of course that explained it. She didn't care about Lancelot. She only cared about herself.

Her heart leapt with joy and relief as the village's campfire appeared in the distance. All of the sudden, she felt her arms waving widely in the air and she heard her voice shouting, "Help! Hurry! Anyone! Saxons! Lancelot! Hurry!"

By the time she reached the village, the knights were already up and about with weapons in hand. Even Tristan had left Jillian's side, carrying his curved sword with him, to see what the commotion was about. They ran over to meet Tarra who was gasping for breath with a look of panic on her face.

"Tarra! What is it?" asked Arthur, his eyes filled with worry and concern.

"Saxons…forest…Lancelot…" Tarra said neither able to catch her breath nor form coherent sentences. The word "Saxons," however, was enough to send the knights into a state of alarm and frenzy.

"Lancelot's in trouble," Arthur declared, forming the sentences for her, "This way!"

Tarra watched as Arthur led the knights into the forest in the direction from which she had just come. She let the air slowly in and out of her lungs and wiped the sweat from her forehead. She'd done her duty, gone the extra mile even. She'd warned them about Lancelot being in trouble, what else could she be expected to do? Damn it, who was she kidding? "Wait for me!" she called to the knights, sprinting back into the forest after them.

------------------------------

Footnote: Reference to the Greek myth of King Midas to whom the god Dionysus gave the gift of being able to turn anything into gold with a single touch.


	10. Chapter 10

The knights stopped suddenly in their pursuit when they heard the sound of shuffling feet advancing towards them. A battle-weary Lancelot emerged from the trees, stumbling towards them. He had his right hand pressed securely over his upper left arm where his sleeve was torn and blood-stained, but in every other respect he appeared to be unharmed. His breathing, however, was erratic; and his eyes contained the fatigue all too familiar to the knights from their many experiences in combat.

Arthur rushed forward to meet him. "Are you alright?" he asked, holding out an arm to steady his wounded comrade, "What happened?"

"We ran across about ten Saxons in the forest. We tried to maneuver past them without being seen, but four of them decided to ambush us. I killed three of them and the fourth retreated back into the woods, probably to rejoin the other six," Lancelot explained between rapid breaths.

"'We' as in you and Tarra?" asked Galahad.

"Yes, Tarra," Lancelot affirmed, "Where is she? Is she safe?"

"Yes, she's fine," assured Arthur, "She made it back to the village to warn us about what had happened."

Lancelot nodded his head in relief. "Good. That's good," he said.

"Should we be getting back, then?" interjected Gawain, "We don't know how many more Saxons are nearby and there could be a threat to the others---"

"Gawain is right," Arthur replied, "The village is no longer safe. We should get those people out and to the wall as quickly as possible until we can fully ascertain the extent of the Saxon threat in this portion of the forest."

"I agree," added Lancelot, "Though I only saw ten of them, that does not mean there aren't more out there."

"So we're just going to run then with our tails between our legs?" demanded a frustrated Galahad, "I don't know about the rest of you, but I'm ready to oust these maggots once and for all."

"It's not wise to go into battle blind," said Tristan who was leaning against a tree impassively examining his sword which he regrettably had not gotten a chance to employ.

"There's no need to be hasty," Arthur warned, "We should wait to strike until we know exactly how many men make up the Saxons' force and what kind of arms they retain."

"The Saxon threat is nothing new," added Gawain, "We've been fighting these bastards for the past year. There's no need to rush into anything tonight---especially without some kind of plan."

"I'd still rather pursue them now and run them off this island forever," grumbled Galahad.

"Galahad, the village must be our first priority. If we don't get those people out of there right away, the entire place could be sacked by morning," explained Arthur urgently.

Arthur's words of warning were enough to put a start in the rest of knights, especially Tristan who remembered Jillian lying in bed completely incapacitated. Jillian fought extraordinarily for her slightness in size, but in her current condition, the chance of her having the strength to even lift a sword was highly debatable. It was thoughts of Jillian and the other innocent villagers that the knights carried with them as they hurried back to begin the evacuation to Hadrian's Wall.

------------------------

"Hey! Wait for me!" Tarra had taken off running into the forest after the knights who were hastening to the aid of Lancelot, but she soon found herself once again lost in the density of foliage in those same unfamiliar woods. The knights had apparently gotten too much of a head start for her to be able to catch up with them for they were nowhere to be seen. Tarra sighed as she once again found herself wandering aimlessly through the never ending scores of trees. She could not have strayed too far from the village, but it was not the village she was looking for, but rather the knights or, more importantly, Lancelot.

'_I really need to pay closer attention to my surroundings,' _she thought to herself.

She stopped momentarily, placing her hands on her hips and letting out an exasperated sigh. She heard the snap of a twig behind her and spun around to discover a hideous Saxon face with a toothy grin. Tarra reached reflexively for her dagger, but it was too late. She felt something hard thump across the side of her head; and then her eyesight failed.

In what seemed to be only a split second later, Tarra opened her eyes dazedly, trying to recognize anything that would indicate to her where she was and how she had gotten there. She tried without avail to lift her hand to her throbbing head, and it was then that she realized her effectively immobilized condition. She bent her head down to discover her arms bound at her sides with rope that fastened the rest of her body to a tree trunk. '_Bloody terrific,_' she thought to herself.

"So the captain isn't the seasoned sea-man he pretends to be," spoke a husky voice in a slurred, Saxon accent. Tarra lifted her head to lock eyes with Raywold the Saxon along with the toothy-grinned Saxon and another of their compatriots.

"Or should I say that _she _pretends to be?" mocked Raywold with a sinister laugh.

"Ah!" said Tarra, finally gaining her bearings and hoping to work some of her charms, "My friend, Raywold! How have you been? I see you made it safely ashore. I was terribly worried…"

Raywold scowled. "I see the blow to your head has not affected your memory," he snarled.

"I never could forget a heinous face," Tarra jibed, never having been any good at holding her tongue.

"You should know that I intend slit your throat," threatened Raywold in return, "Your insults will not help your situation."

"On the contrary, if your intention is to slit my throat, it would be much better to get ample use of it before it is rendered completely worthless," she countered.

"You think you have a way with words, don't you?"

"Better than some."

"And do you think your words can save you from an inescapable fate?"

"I don't believe in fate. But if by this 'inescapable fate' you refer to near-death circumstances, I can tell you that words have saved me from much more ominous occasions than the one in which I currently find myself."

Raywold spat at her feet. "Utter rubbish," he scoffed, "You speak nothing but lies."

"A fair judgement, to be sure, and a fact I will not dispute," answered Tarra, "But I assure you there is one word upon which I would rest every last hope of escape."

"And what word is that?" Raywold asked, eyeing her curiously.

"_HEEEEEEEELP!_" Tarra cried in a blood curdling scream that shook even the stalwart Saxon who stood forebodingly before her.

------------------------------

"Did you hear that?" asked Gawain, perking up his head at a cry that echoed through the woods and reverberated between the trees.

"It sounded like---" began Galahad.

"Tarra!" Lancelot exclaimed, "She's in trouble! Hurry! This way!"

With that, Lancelot took off into the forest in the direction of the scream, followed closely behind by the other knights. They raced as fast as their feet would carry them, zigzagging between the trees and leaping over logs and debris that obstructed their path. The wind whipped across their cheeks and its briskness stung as it filled their lungs. They presently came upon a clearing where they quickly evaluated the situation at hand.

Three husky Saxons loomed around Tarra whose limp body was held tightly against a tree with thick rope. She had once again been rendered unconscious, this time by Raywold who had struck her across the jaw in order to stifle her scream. Her head lay drooped on her shoulder as blood trickled down her chin from her cut lip. Her three captors were advancing towards her with weapons in hand when Bors' war cry stopped them in their tracks, "Ruuuuus!"

The knights charged upon the Saxons, brandishing their swords, with the exception of Tristan who uncharacteristically held back from the ambush, still unable to justify any actions intended to aid his estranged half-sister. Bors chucked his axe at the Saxon with the toothy grin. The axe flew through the air and reached its final resting place lodged in the dead center of the Saxon's chest. The third Saxon charged at Arthur who dispatched him with one effortless swing of Excalibur. Lancelot, despite his injured arm, gracefully maneuvered his twin swords which he parried against Raywold's axe. Raywold was an experienced fighter, but Lancelot was legendary and lived up to his reputation as his trusty blades ripped the hefty Saxon to pieces.

Galahad and Gawain seemed disappointed not to have had the chance to join in the action, but instead looked satisfactorily over the three Saxon corpses that littered the forest floor. Tristan hung back at the edge of the clearing, feeling like an outsider for not sharing the common goal of Tarra's rescue. The extent of his involvement in the endeavor was observing the events as they unfolded and readying himself if his comrades should need his aid.

Of course, they hadn't needed his help, which was proven by the ease with which they slaughtered the Saxon foes; and now he could do nothing but lurk at the edge of the clearing, feeling somewhat guilty as though he had abandoned them. He supposed he should have chosen his loyalty to his friends over his grudge against Tarra, but he simply could not induce himself to join them in their rescue and revival of that worthless fraud, unconscious as she might have been, so he idled by a tree as the rest of the knights exhibited their typical heroism and valor.

Tristan observed as Lancelot rushed over to Tarra's side, cutting her free from her binds. Her unconscious body fell limply into his arms. He gathered her to his chest and laid her down at the base of the tree. Tristan watched curiously as Lancelot then knelt next to Tarra, brushing her hair from her forehead and working relentlessly to revive her. "Tarra. Tarra, wake up. Tarra," he repeated.

Tristan raised an eyebrow at Lancelot's apparent concern for the girl. Surely Lancelot was not foolish enough to have gotten involved with her. Wait a minute, this was Lancelot he was thinking about. Of course he had gotten involved. Tristan cursed his friend's imprudence. Couldn't he see that Tarra would bring nothing but ill fate?

Tarra's eyes fluttered open to find Lancelot's rich, brown eyes sinking into her own as though through the simplest of gazes he could penetrate her thoughts. She looked up at him in a hypnotized stare for several seconds before she became conscious of his rough hand that brushed against her face to wipe the blood away from her chin. At this realization, she jerked up suddenly into a sitting position, batting his hand away from her.

Lancelot pivoted back on his heels, holding up his hands in understanding. She eyed him wearily for a moment before speaking. "What happened?" she asked finally in a strained, raspy voice.

"It appears you fell into the hands of three rather unfriendly Saxons," Lancelot replied softly for it was obvious her head was still fuzzy from her unconsciousness.

Memories flooded back to Tarra, and her eyes opened wide with a sudden recollection. "I was looking for you!" she remembered, "After they attacked us and you stayed behind to fight them."

"It would seem I did a lousy job of it seeing as I allowed them to escape just in time to capture you," answered Lancelot with regret.

"Yes, you should be ashamed of yourself," teased Tarra in an exaggerated tone of female frailty, "letting a delicate little flower such as myself fall into the hands of those dirty ruffians."

Lancelot laughed. "Hardly," he replied, "I suspect that to say we interrupted some master plan you had to single-handedly take out those three Saxons would be closer to the truth."

"Exactly," said Tarra coolly, trying to hide the humiliation she felt at suddenly remembering exactly what her plan of escape had actually entailed, "I mean, I'm not the vulnerable type who can do nothing but cry out in terror for help when she's in trouble…"

"Certainly not," agreed Lancelot with a knowing smile.

"Lancelot," interrupted Arthur, "We should return to the village right away. Though I don't anticipate anymore Saxon encounters at present, there are still at least four more out there. I would rest more assured knowing the village is secure."

"Of course," answered Lancelot; then turned to Tarra, "Do you think you can stand?"

"Yes," she replied, using the trunk of the tree to steady herself to her feet, despite the offer of Lancelot's outreached hand. They stood for a moment staring awkwardly at each other until a nervous smile cracked across Lancelot's lips. Tarra returned the expression, allowing a faint smile to curl up her face; and in that state of mutual geniality, they headed back through the forest.


	11. Chapter 11

Tarra sat mounted on her horse with the rest of the knights, idling by as Arthur orchestrated the evacuation of the village. Native women shuffled their sleepy-eyed children into wagons, piling in food, blankets, and supplies along with them. Merlin had mysteriously vanished hours ago as he was often known to do. The village men readied their horses and loaded their weaponry into the wagons along with the other supplies.

Tarra turned her head to the cabin door that swung open to reveal Tristan's tall figure emerging from inside, cradling a precious bundle in his arms. He walked with his shoulders back and took long, heroic strides towards his waiting horse. Jillian looked fragile and small like a child with her arms weakly embracing his neck and her slenderness exaggerated as it was lost in his broad frame.

Though they had reconciled after their heated argument, Tristan could still sense a coldness in Jillian's composure. Of course, he had not expected her to recover immediately from the loss of a child, but his heart broke at the sight of the sadness that now overwhelmed her eyes and dulled them into an unshakable apathy to the world around her. Would she ever be the same?

Noticing Tarra's gaze in their direction, Tristan wondered what her role was in all that had passed. Tarra had seemed to know more about what had happened to Jillian than she let on. He would have to ask Jillian about that when she awoke. Ever since the knights had rushed to Tarra's aid, he had wondered how she had managed to gain the favor and loyalty of his brothers in arms. Were they simply blind to the malignance inside her or was it he who was blind to whatever goodness might lie within her seemingly cool exterior?

Tristan climbed up on his horse, seating Jillian sideways in the saddle in front of him with her head resting against his shoulder. Tristan encompassed his arms protectively around her, while still managing to control the reigns of his horse. She looked peaceful and safe, hardly stirring from her sleep despite the jerky movements of the restless animal.

'_How incredibly sickening_,' Tarra thought to herself with a sigh. May the gods strike her down a thousand times before she ever had to depend on another human being in such a manner. Then again, hadn't she in a way just depended on the knights to save her from the Saxons? Curse the day she set foot on his bloody island! Nothing was going the way she had planned; and she knew there was only one thing left to do.

Once they returned to the wall she would leave immediately, find the first ship leaving Briton, and get as far away from this wretched island as she could. She did not know where she would go, but then that was the beauty of it. She would be independent and free to do as she pleased once again. She would put this whole affair behind her and move on to her next adventure, forgetting all about Arthur and his unconventional band of knights. Arthur could keep his head, Tarra could keep her independence, and Tristan and Jillian could keep their vile, love-induced repulsiveness. Everyone would be happy.

"There's room for two on my horse as well," hinted Lancelot, noting Tarra's extended stare at Tristan and Jillian.

Tarra gave Lancelot a look of disgust. "Why don't you go stick an arrow up your ass?" she reviled in a tone of contempt. The villagers were beginning to mobilize down the path into the forest, so she took that chance to urge her horse forward to join the caravan and escape Lancelot's company.

"Tarra! Wait!" he called to her after the shock of her statement wore off. He nudged his horse forward and called out again, "Tarra!"

"What?" she asked impatiently as he rode up next to her.

"What's wrong?"

"Nothing."

Lancelot paused and let out a sigh. "Well there's no need to get all melodramatic about it. It was just a joke!" he said finally.

"I am _not _melodramatic!" she replied, appalled at his suggestion, "And I know it was a joke."

"Ah, so _that's _it."

"What?"

"Your tempestuous remarks and surly countenance must merely be a result of your frustration that my words are made in jest and not in profession of honest ardor and limitless passion," Lancelot answered with a mocking smile.

"You know, Lancelot, I do believe I had you figured completely wrong," responded Tarra coolly.

"Is that so?" he asked in amusement.

"Yes," she replied, "All this time I thought you simply proud and arrogant, but the more I listen to you try to convince yourself of my infatuation, the more I am convinced of your own insecurity. Tell me, are you trying to overcompensate for something with those twin swords?"

Lancelot raised an eyebrow. "Care to find out?" he asked with a smirk.

"No!" exclaimed Tarra immediately. Lancelot threw his head back and laughed. Tarra found herself unable to contain her own laughter as well and joined in his good humor. She really wasn't sure what had put her in such a foul disposition to begin with, but she simply shrugged it off and returned to her usual self.

She observed fixedly as Lancelot tended to his injured arm, tearing a strip of fabric from his tunic and wrapping it tightly around the wound. He struggled to tie the strip into a knot as he only had one hand with which to work, making the task exceedingly difficult. "Here, let me help," Tarra offered suddenly, taking the bandaging from Lancelot's hands and tying it tightly around his arm.

Lancelot stared at her with a look of surprise. "Thank you," he said when she had finished.

"You're welcome," she replied as though she had done nothing out of the ordinary. On the contrary, her gesture had been so out of character that she did not even know what to make of it herself. She felt the heat of Lancelot's stare and asked finally, "What? Do I have a leg growing out of my head or something?"

Lancelot laughed and shook his head, "No, but I wouldn't be surprised if my own head had grown legs whilst running around in circles trying to figure you out."

Tarra raised an eyebrow, "It's not that difficult." She paused for a moment, then drew something out from her pocket and placed it in Lancelot's hand. He discerned it to be a seed of some kind, but was puzzled as to its purpose. "Here," she said as she handed it to him, "It's a Lavender flower seed. Hold onto it for me, and do _not _lose it because I'll want it back. If you can perform as simple a task as that, you should have no trouble figuring out someone as plain as myself."

Lancelot looked at her quizzically as she gave him his assignment, but he obediently placed the seed carefully into his own pocket without any further questions. It seemed that the more inquisitive he became about Tarra's character, the more ambiguously she composed her answers. Nevertheless, he could not deny that he certainly was intrigued.

The caravan had advanced considerably through the woods, and they were overall making good time and keeping a steady pace. Arthur and the rest of the knights rode up to join Tarra and Lancelot in their place in the line of wagons and horses. Tarra's glance met with Tristan's, and he seemed to be eyeing her strangely. Jillian had been awake for awhile now and had been speaking to him softly in his ear at a volume that prevented others from overhearing what was said. She presently gave Tarra a smile of assurance. Tristan noted that it was first change in expression that had crossed Jillian's face since she had fallen into her melancholic, apathetic state.

Tarra wondered if Jillian had told Tristan of the assistance she had given her in the forest. Tarra shrugged to herself apathetically. She hadn't cared when Tristan had a poor opinion of her, why should she care if that opinion had improved now?

The cry of a bird was heard in the distance, and Tarra practically jumped out of her saddle as she felt something swoop past her head. Tristan's hawk soared down and perched itself on his arm. Jillian mustered a faint smile of amusement at Tarra's startled state. "There's no reason to be afraid. She's perfectly harmless," Jillian said, stroking the hawk under its beak.

"I don't like things that fly," Tarra answered with a frown, "They're bad luck. Creatures should stay on the ground, not go gallivanting off into the sky. It's unnatural."

"I think it would be wonderful to be able to fly," Jillian said almost wistfully, "There must be such freedom in it."

"Don't get any ideas," Tarra warned, "I've seen very bad outcomes come from that line of thinking."

"What do you mean?" Jillian inquired, tilting her head in curiosity.

"Remember what I told you about Sultan Arif?" asked Tarra, "Well, it wasn't but a few months after the birth of the son I afore mentioned that the sultan got it in his head that he wanted to learn to fly. You see, a traveling merchant had arrived with his newest invention: a full suit of feathers equipped with wings. Despite the pleading of his closest advisors, Sultan Arif was determined to try out this contraption by jumping off a nearby cliff. Of course, the mere thought of this endeavor horrified all his closest subjects. Finally, Sultan Arif saw the light of reason and decided that he would graciously allow one of his loyal guards to be the first to try out the avian vestment. The guard, bound by law to loyalty and service, reluctantly strapped on the suit and fell to his death from the cliff."

"That's terrible!" Jillian gasped.

"Not necessarily," responded Tarra, "You see it was that same guard who was rumored to have been involved in a certain garden tryst with a certain wife of the sultan who subsequently gave birth to a certain child---do you see where I'm going with this?"

Jillian shook her head knowingly, "Yes, I daresay I do."

Tristan, who had up to this point had appeared completely oblivious to their conversation, finally spoke. "Was it you who finally convinced the sultan not to jump?" he asked. The lack of the usual complete, unabated hostility in the question caught Tarra off-guard. Was her half-brother finally warming up to her?

"I might have," she answered discreetly, "But I respected him, you know?" Tristan stared at Tarra with an unreadable expression. If she had been able to read his thoughts, she would have discovered that she had actually shocked him with the notion that she was capable of respecting anyone or anything. Perhaps they had both misjudged each other, whether they were ready to admit it or not.

Tarra let out an extended yawn, expressing her extreme fatigue. They had ridden practically all night, and as the sun peeked its head over the horizon, Hadrian's Wall finally came into view. The rest of the convoy appeared just as tired as she for their pace had slowed substantially and the conversation had long since ceased. Jillian was once again snuggled against Tristan's chest in deep slumber. Tarra felt her own body slump down towards the back of her horses' neck. What she wouldn't give to close her eyes just for one single moment…

"Tarra! Wake up! We're almost there!" came Lancelot's voice which shook her awake. Had she been asleep? She could not even remember the exact moment she had closed her eyes, but she awoke to find the caravan presently entering through the gates of Hadrian's Wall.

Once inside the wall, Tarra dismounted her horse along with the other knights, as Jols, Arthur's assistant, led the horses to the stables. Tarra's jaw dropped at the sight of the familiar figure that advanced towards them. Barak Mahal, that same serpentine miscreant who had offered her his assignment to exterminate Arthur, walked nonchalantly towards them with a wide, confident grin spread openly across his face. Tarra felt suddenly sick to her stomach. There went her plans of aborting her mission and fleeing Briton once and for all.

"Tarra!" Barak called out to her in an overly friendly tone, "There you are! I was afraid I had missed you."

"I bet you were," Tarra muttered sarcastically to herself.

"Are you a friend of Tarra's?" asked Arthur in a warm, welcoming voice.

"Oh, yes," Barak answered with a devious grin that sent chills down Tarra's spine, "We are the oldest of friends, aren't we, Tarra?"

Tarra gulped, "Yes. Yes, very old friends. Arthur, knights, this is Barak Mahal."

"A pleasure," greeted Arthur with a nod.

"You should have a drink with us, then, if you are friends with Tarra" Lancelot offered, eyeing Barak suspiciously, clearly viewing this new guest as an intruder or, worse, as competition.

"Oh," interjected Tarra before Barak could answer, "I'm sure Barak was just leaving, and besides, isn't it a bit early to be drinking?"

"It's never too early for a drink," insisted Lancelot, not once taking his eyes off Barak, "What do you say?"

Barak grinned. "It's certainly not in my nature to refuse a drink," he replied, "By all means, lead the way!"

Lancelot directed Barak towards the tavern, keeping a weary eye on his newly introduced companion. Barak remained the epitome of smooth composure, which was a requisite in his line of work. He turned nonchalantly to Tarra, giving a dangerous look meant only for her to recognize. "Are you coming, Tarra?" he asked coolly.

Every inch of her body told her that she should run as fast as she could and escape from the precarious situation in which she now found herself, but she could not convince her feet to remove themselves from where they lay planted on the ground. She instead found herself replying in a voice that cracked nervously at each inflection. "Yes. I'm coming---right behind you," she called.


	12. Chapter 12

Hey guys! Here's the next chapter. I thought I should put a disclaimer at the beginning that nothing in this is historically accurate except that Bostra and Petra did actually exist during the Roman Empire. Everything else is pure fiction, though, so I apologize for the plethora of inaccuracies resulting from my ignorance on the subject. Thanks!

------------------------

Morning had arrived disguised in black storm clouds that cast a shadow over the fort as dark as night. A clap of thunder reverberated against the stones of Hadrian's Wall as Tristan laid Jillian gently in their bed so as not to wake her. She immediately curled herself into a ball, hugging her knees to her chest and shivering from the cold. All was still and quiet except for the sound of rain splattering on the window sill. Tristan pulled the covers over her and felt her forehead with the back of his hand. She was warm, and he knew he would have to go down to the healing room to bring back some medicine to abate the fever.

Jillian rolled over onto her back and looked up at him with foggy eyes. "Are we home?" she whispered hoarsely.

"Yes," he replied, "Go back to sleep. I'll return shortly with herbs to help the fever."

"I'm alright," she protested in a weak, strained voice that was anything but convincing.

"Shhh," said Tristan softly, "Rest. I'll be back soon."

Tristan closed the door softly behind him and made his way down the hall towards the healing room. He could not stop all the events of the past twenty-four hours from stampeding through his head like wild horses. '_Jillian. Gone. Found. Baby. Dead. Jillian. Tarra. Saxons. Tarra. Jillian.' _The thoughts pulsed, throbbed, and echoed in his mind, disconnected, yet strung together in a never ending chain that stretched and stretched until nothing could be seen beyond them.

Tristan and Jillian had not talked about the baby since their fight; and perhaps they never would again, but their silence did not erase its existence. The child was right there in Jillian's eyes, between her and Tristan. '_The child?_' Tristan stopped abruptly in his tracks, his hand instinctively rising to cover his mouth at the gasp of a realization. '_Not **the **child,_' he thought, '_**My **child._' For the first time, he felt the protective nature a father feels for his offspring and, at the same time, felt the burning shame of failure flush his cheeks. A father was supposed to keep his child safe from all harm and to protect his child against any danger. He'd failed at that before his child had even entered the world.

So great had been his failure, in fact, that it had been Tarra who found Jillian in the forest and Tarra who had saved the life of the person he loved the most. Jillian and Tarra had formed a bond that night so strong that his opinion of Tarra, no matter how poor, would never be able to break it. Yet, his opinion of Tarra, to his surprise, was not poor, not any longer. When had that happened? _"She saved my life," _Jillian had said, _"I will always love her as a sister even if you don't."_

Tristan reached the healing room and grabbed the herbs he needed. As he studied one of the bottles, he made his decision. He would be strong for Jillian's sake. He had to be, and if that meant making an effort to put the past behind him in regards to Tarra, then he would do that as well. He would do battle with the most venomous demons in hell for Jillian's love and, in light of his gift for fighting, one would almost pity those demons for having to face his wrath. His will to survive, his strength, would be enough for both himself and for Jillian---or so he hoped.

----------------

Jillian listened to the creak of the door as Tristan exited the room and then slid her bare feet onto the cold, stone floor. She stepped gingerly over to the window where the rain beat heavily against the ledge. She reached her arm out the window, catching rain drops in the palm of her hand. A roar of thunder rolled across the sky as she breathed in the scent of the rain.

Jillian turned from the window with melancholic eyes that sparkled like the falling drops of rain and slid her garments down her narrow shoulders until they fell to the floor at her ankles. A flash of lightning illuminated the slender silhouette of her naked body. She arched her back and knew herself to be exposed in the most raw and organic sense possible. She let her eyes fall down the front of her body and for first time she perceived her frame that had now grown sickly and frail. She ran her ice cold hands across her jagged ribs that jutted out from beneath her skin and continued running her fingers further down over her flat, empty, and hollow stomach.

A shudder ran through her body as she fell crumpled to the floor. Her head felt as dark and cloudy as the world outside her window. The room spun around her and rattled at the clap of thunder. _'Get up,' _she ordered herself under her breath, _'Get. Up.' _Jillian slowly lifted her head, her jaw clenched in defiance and tears streaming down her cheeks. Grief would not get the best of her, would not defeat her, would not overcome her. She would be strong for herself and for Tristan, and if that meant not shedding one more single tear, then that was exactly what she would do.

Jillian rose triumphantly to her feet as a bolt of lightning flashed across the sky, flickering down the line of her back. She pulled her garments back over her body and climbed back into bed. Just as she pulled the covers back over her shivering body, the door creaked open and Tristan entered with arms full of bottles of herbs. "How are you?" he asked with concern.

Her face was hard as stone as she replied, "I am fine."

------------------------

"Bloody hell!" grunted Bors as he entered the hall, shaking off the rain from his soaked clothing.

The party had barely made it to the tavern when the crack of thunder roared above their heads bringing down buckets of water with it. They therefore decided to move their gathering to the main hall that held Arthur's well renowned round table. The hall was now filled with the other tavern-goers who had followed them in from the storm. Arthur, Tarra, Barak, and the knights congregated in the corner.

"So, Barak Mahal is it? What brings you to Briton?" interrogated Lancelot, moving closer to Tarra's side as though marking his territory.

"Yes," interjected Arthur, a little unsettled by Barak's presence as well, "Tarra's arrival was a surprise in and of itself, so you cannot blame us for being curious as to what circumstances would compel a friend to follow so closely behind."

"Ah, but isn't such a compelling friend as Tarra a circumstance enough?" replied Barak with his usual suaveness that almost matched Lancelot's own well-polished nature except for the malignant undertone that only Tarra seemed to recognize, "Though it would be misleading of me not to add that I came not only for Tarra's good company, but also to relieve her of a burden that appears to still lay so heavily on your shoulders, Arthur."

"On _my _shoulders?" Arthur asked, furrowing his eyebrows in confusion, "I'm not sure I understand your meaning."

"I'm afraid," interrupted Tarra urgently, "that it is _I _who has misled _you_, Barak, and you really needn't have come."

"No, there was no confusion. It's clear that we all have our heads in the right places," Barak protested, putting an amused emphasis on the word 'heads,' "which is exactly why I came, you see, and---"

"No, really! You have misunderstood!" cried Tarra, frantically trying to think of anything to say to keep Barak from leading the conversation further down the present course. "In fact!" she added quickly, "It reminds me of an infamous misunderstanding that the Sultan Arif had with the Sultan of Petra." She did not pause here, but rambled on as Barak gave her a dangerous smile with devious eyes that told her she should not fool herself into thinking she was the one in control.

She tried to ignore him and continued hastily, "You see, on the same day that an old friend of Sultan Arif sent him a new riding camel, the Sultan of Petra's daughter arrived as a diplomatic gift of peace to be taken in marriage by Sultan Arif and to ally him with the Sultan of Petra. Now, Bostra, ruled by Sultan Arif, and Petra had been at odds for many years mostly because Petra is a fertile land of agricultural wealth, while Bostra is a dry and arid land. The main city of Petra is surrounded by a grand wall, much similar to the wall you have here, which is impenetrable by any enemy force. Because of Bostra's continued assaults on Petra, the two cities lived in conflict until Sultan Arif agreed to take the Sultan of Petra's daughter as another one of his many wives in return for a cessation of attacks made against Petra.

"This peace did not last long, however, because Sultan Arif sat down the very next day to write letters of thanks to both his old friend for the camel and to the Sultan of Petra for his daughter. Upon sending those letters out, however, he confused the two pieces of correspondence, sending each letter in the wrong direction and to the wrong recipient. You can imagine the sultan's old friend's dismay at perusing the letter which read, 'You have my deepest thanks for the gift of this endearing creature, which represents all that is beautiful in nature and on which I have bestowed the finest silks and the most comfortable quarters in my palace.' Much greater in abhorrence was the Sultan of Petra's reaction to the letter he received which read, 'Many thanks for your generosity in lavishing upon me such a buxom beast, which I have already had the pleasure of riding twice this afternoon.'"

The knights laughed heartily at Tarra's anecdote, while Barak held steadfast in his menacing grin. He motioned with his eyes for Tarra to meet with him outside of the company of the knights. Barak moved casually away from the gathering with Tarra excusing herself a moment later to follow him. Lancelot trailed them both suspiciously with his eyes. Something was amiss.

"What are you doing here? What do you want?" demanded Tarra, once out of ear-shot from the others.

Barak's social charm had evacuated from his countenance so that he was now stripped down to his natural cold and uncaring disposition. "Not here," he replied, "Meet me in the stables in a quarter of an hour."

"What if I vanish in a quarter of an hour?" Tarra countered, testing the waters to see just exactly what Barak had up his sleeve.

"Then every last one of your newly befriended knights will be dead by the hour's end," he sneered, "And then I will hunt you down and there will be no one to save you from the terror I will wreak upon your worthless existence."

Tarra gulped, "See you in fifteen, then."

Tarra watched Barak stalk out of the hall and then returned to where the knights stood, each giving her a look of puzzlement. They were clearly waiting for an explanation that she was not ready to give. Tarra stood awkwardly in front of them for a moment and then announced, "I---I think I'm going to go check on Jillian."

"I'll go with you," Lancelot offered, advancing towards her.

"No—no!" she protested, "I'd rather go on my own. There are just---girl things---we need to discuss in private. Yes, girl things, and, well, none of you are girls. Although, Gawain does have very long, flowing, girl-like hair. Not that that's a bad thing. I like it. I'm just---babbling. Yes. I should be quiet now. I'm---I'm going to go."

With that eloquent display of verbiage, Tarra quitted the company of the knights and made her way from the hall to the stables. Her heart beat rapidly and her palms were clammy with sweat. Not only did she know now more than ever that she could not fulfill mission, but she also knew that she had to find some way to stop Barak. Perhaps she should go back and warn Arthur, but then, wouldn't that give her away as well as Barak?

There had to be a way she could save Arthur without having to sacrifice herself in the process. She had to think, to formulate a plan. She had never before been in a situation so dire that it could not be escaped with a moment of deliberation, but at that moment, she reached the entrance to the stables. _'Oh well, there's a first for everything,'_ she thought as she opened the door.


	13. Chapter 13

Hey everyone, thanks for your patience. Here's the next chapter finally up, but first I thought I'd share a short poem. I've really been getting into Stephen Crane's poetry lately, so you'll probably see me posting some of his poems before the next few chapters. Enjoy!

_A man feared that he might find an assassin;  
Another that he might find a victim.  
One was more wise than the other._

-Stephen Crane

-----------------------------------------------------

The wind howled from outside as Tarra pulled the stable door shut behind her. It was dark and eerie inside without a sign of life except for the whinnying of the horses and the creaking of the floor boards beneath her feet. Tarra's heart pounded as she made her way further through the aisle between the stalls. A shiver ran up her spine as the tall figure of Barak Mahal emerged from the shadows, his translucent green eyes glowing in the obscurity.

"Hello, Tarra," he greeted with a smile that contradicted his menacing tone, "For a moment there, I thought you wouldn't show."

"What are you doing here, Barak?" asked Tarra concealing her uncertainty by getting straight to the point, "I had everything under control until you showed up."

Barak let out a cool, unfeeling laugh. "Yes, I could see that," he said sarcastically, "You know, Tarra, I'm beginning to wonder if you haven't switched sides on me. When news reached me that you had killed one of Nassir Hamalo's assassins---"

"Wait just a second!" Tarra protested, remembering the circumstances in which she and the other assassin had found themselves on her first night at the fort, "It's not my fault that incompetent imbecile and I ended up behind the same tapestry. Not to mention, he was going after _my _bounty. I had every right to kill him and you know it!"

"Your bounty being Arthur, I assume?" replied Barak advancing dangerously close to her, "That's very interesting, considering that, as far as I can tell, that target still has yet to be eliminated."

"Barak, please," stammered Tarra, backing away from his advance, "I just need more time."

"Shut up!" boomed Barak's voice, "Now you listen to me. We don't have time for these eccentric little mind games you like to play that make you think you're so clever. Arthur has to be killed, and he has to be killed soon."

"Oh, come on, Barak. Rush a kill and you spoil the fun of it, right?" teased Tarra with a nervous laugh, "What's the big hurry? It's not like his head is a bloody melon that you have to pick while it's still ripe. You need to relax a little bit. I mean, damn, I don't remember you always being so uptight."

Barak's face showed no reaction to the insult, except for the corner of his mouth curling up in an amused half-smile. For such a sinister character, he certainly did smile a lot, which in turn made him seem all the more dangerous. "You know what your problem is, Tarra?" he asked pointedly, "You lack vision. Hell, that would be putting it lightly. What you really lack is substance. You walk around with a sharp reply to everything. You've built up this elaborate wall around yourself that makes everyone wonder what's behind it, but do you know what your secret is Tarra? Your secret is that there's nothing beneath that façade. You're all parapets and no palace, Tarra."

Barak looked down at her triumphantly, waiting for her reply, but she simply held his gaze with a firm defiance. "Well? Aren't you going to say anything?" he demanded.

Tarra raised an eyebrow. "Oh, I'm sorry," she replied haughtily, "I thought we had established the fact that you were talking to a wall."

Barak let out a roar of laughter. "You always were my favorite apprentice, Tarra," he said, "It's really a shame you've turned out to be such a disappointment. You know, you had the chance to prove something about yourself with this assignment, but you had to go soft on me, didn't you? Don't try to deny it. I know all about your little escapade in the forest to help your brother's lover. How quaint. I never picked you for being the family type."

"_Half_-brother," Tarra corrected, "And I haven't gone soft. Even if I had, would that really be so bad? What kind of person tries to prove their complete worthlessness as a feeling human being by murdering a bunch of innocent people?"

"Don't kid yourself," Barak scoffed, "Idealism never suited you. You're too self-absorbed and too incomplete of a person."

"Well, seeing as I'm so incomplete, I at least won't be able to stay absorbed with myself for too long and certainly would not dwell upon the subject as long as you have."

"Oh, Tarra, what a side-stepping politician you would have made---if only you had been born Roman---and noble---and male," Barak said, laughing at Tarra's apparently misfortunate circumstances of birth, "But you see what I am really dwelling on is your character for only that, in turn, will indicate your abilities. Do you have the cold-heartedness, the drive, the stamina---to take Arthur's life?"

As he said these words, he drew a dagger from his belt and held it out to Tarra. It had a beautiful, sparkling blade with a lavishly engraved brass hilt. A flash of lightning danced across its sharp edge and glittered down to its pointed tip. Tarra stood paralyzed, staring at the deadly weapon that was extended to her, waiting to be transferred into her hands. Tarra's arms remained unflinching at her sides, despite Barak's antagonizing glare that ordered her to relieve the knife from his grasp.

He waited only two seconds longer before the dagger was at her throat. "Is this your answer then?" he snarled in her ear as he pushed her up against the stable wall. She felt the sharp edge of the blade digging into her neck and a cold hand snatch one of her wrists, pinning it against the wall with the rest of her body.

She gasped for air as her throat constricted at the pressure of the knife. "Please…don't…touch…"

"Shut up!" he growled, pushing the dagger further into her skin and tightening his grasp around her wrist. Her entire body stiffened at his contact, as her eyes darted from side to side searching for any means of escape, but she was trapped in his broad frame that pushed her further and further up against the wall. Her thoughts immediately went to her dagger. Where had she hidden it? She cursed herself at the realization that it was in her boot, out of her reach. She wanted to scream, but no sound could escape her throat and she was finding it increasingly difficult to take in breaths of air. She cringed at Barak's voice that spoke relentlessly in her ear, "I gave you a handsome share of the reward didn't I?—to kill Arthur. Now, when I pay as substantial a sum as that, I expect results. I expect---"

Barak's words were suddenly cut short and the dagger clattered to the floor at their feet. His grip on her wrist loosened and his eyes rolled lazily back into his head as he tumbled lifelessly to the ground. Tarra's vision finally came into focus as she observed Lancelot removing his sword from where he had plunged it between Barak's shoulder blades. Tarra's hands trembled violently from the shock at what had passed, which presently rendered her speechless. Lancelot, however, was not waiting for her reaction.

"You---you were sent to kill Arthur?" he asked in a voice that was dangerously low. His eyes remained fixed on the corpse at his feet as he was filled with too much rage to look her in the eyes. She found herself giving a slight nod of affirmation, keeping her eyes fixed at her feet in shame. "Get out," he whispered with a voice that trembled with ire.

"Lancelot, please---let me explain---" she pleaded.

"Get out," he repeated, raising his voice, "Leave. Leave the fort---leave this country---and never come back."

"Lancelot, I beg you---"

"GET OUT!" he roared, unleashing his wrath with eyes that burned through Tarra mercilessly to her core.

Tarra shivered as tears welled in her eyes, searching for any sign of compassion in his countenance. He stood unchanging with his jaw clenched, his hands balled into fists, and his breathing ragged as rage surged through his veins. Tarra gave one hard swallow down her dry, parched throat, then fled the stable, leaving the door swinging behind her in a gust of wind.

------------

She tore through the gates of Hadrian's Wall and knew not how long she had been running except that she was now deep into the woods and could no longer see the edge of the forest behind her. An unknown force kept her feet pounding against the mud-caked forest floor. The rain had subsided, but the wind still blew furiously against her tear-streaked cheeks. The leaves in the trees rustled and a bird above flapped its wings, but Tarra was oblivious to all sounds except the screaming voice in her head that told her everything was wrong and would never be right again.

She could not shake the image of Lancelot's rage infested face when he discovered who she truly was. He had every reason to kill her right there along with Barak, and maybe he should have. She ought to have been grateful that he spared her life, but his face, his horrified face, was forever engraved in her memory like an epitaph on a tombstone. Lancelot might as well have killed Tarra because everything he believed about her was changed in that instant when he entered that gods-forsaken stable. The Tarra he thought he knew was dead now, if in fact something could die that had never existed, and there ran the shell of what was left of her, cast to a strong east wind.

A sharp pain shot through Tarra's side, and she realized she must have been sprinting for nearly two miles. She slowed her pace as a great, mighty oak appeared before her, and she sought refuge under its extended, sheltering branches like a baby bird under its mother's wing. Its thick, winding trunk bore a faded etching that Tarra strained her eyes to read. She traced her fingers along the letters and read its words aloud, "He who hath nothing to die for hath neither anything to live for."

Tarra fell to her knees in despair and self-indignation. Would she ever find something to live for, to die for? Or was she dead already? Would she ever truly live? She shifted herself so that her back rested against the base of the strong oak, gathering her legs up to her chest. The forest felt vast and empty around her, magnifying her awareness of her intense loneliness and complete solitude. A little voice that was all too familiar whispered in her ear, '_So he found out what you really are, and so he'll tell everyone else. What does it matter?' _But it did matter. It mattered so much. She laid her head down to rest on her knees, closed her eyes, and lost herself in thoughts of regret.

Tarra was unaware of how much time had passed when she looked up suddenly at the sound of a horse's hooves from off in the distance growing louder. Her jaw dropped in awe at the sight of Tristan atop his white steed, cantering towards where she sat. As he looked down at her sitting dejectedly beneath the great oak, the memory of the day she was born flashed back to him, _"What could I do? I wrapped the baby in a blanket and headed into the forest. I had almost reached the grave when I saw a caravan of traveling gypsies sitting around a fire. I crept as close to them as I could, and laid the baby down beneath a tree." _How strange that he should find his sister beneath a tree now.  
Tarra wiped away the left over tears from her blood-shot eyes. "So, I guess you know, then?"

Tristan dismounted his horse and strode towards her. "Yes," he replied plainly, without opinion or emotion, "I know."

Tarra narrowed her eyes at him, trying to read his thoughts. "Well?" she demanded, "Have you come to rid the world of me once and for all then? I warn you, I put up a pretty damn good fight." With that, Tarra got to her feet, drawing out the dagger she had concealed in her boot.

Tristan let out a sigh, "Put that away. I'm not going to fight you."

His words baffled her. "Is this some kind of trick?" she asked suspiciously.

"No tricks," he replied, holding up his empty hands as evidence, "You shouldn't just run off into the forest alone. Didn't you learn anything from your last encounter with the Saxons?"

"Alright, now I _know _this is a ruse," she said in a tone of bewilderment, "It has to be or you're out of your damn mind. I was _paid _to _kill _Arthur, and you're worried about my falling into the hands of the Saxons? Why? You want the pleasure of killing me yourself? Do you really expect me to believe that you give a damn about my safety? You were right about me! Don't you see that? You were right all along!"

"No," he said simply, "Not entirely. You're untrustworthy, self-centered, manipulative---"

"Gods! What is this? The Holy Day of Everyone Pointing Out Tarra's Faults?" she asked, throwing her hands up in the air.

"Let me finish," Tristan demanded firmly, "You are many things that are less than honorable, but if I've learned anything from my service under Arthur's command, it's that people should be judged by their actions. Yes, you were paid to kill Arthur, but that's of no consequence now because you didn't do it. You couldn't do it. Instead, you saved the life of the one person who is dearest to me on this earth. Rid the world of you, Tarra? Perhaps I should be thanking you."

Tarra stared at him for a moment in bewilderment, struck at the realization that he was being sincere. Turning her head from him in shame, she whispered, "You were more right than you think and you wouldn't be saying those things if you knew the whole story." Then, drawing in a deep breath, she resigned herself for the first time to telling the truth. After all, what did she have to lose now? "Barak Mahal was not my only employer in regards to the assassination," she said, turning back to Tristan, her voice slow and steady, "I don't know why I'm telling you this except that I see no benefit for myself in keeping it a secret now, so to hell with it. I'm leaving this island forever and you'll never see me again, but before I depart you should know that a Roman woman of noble birth named Lucia Gaius had also paid me in advance to kill Arthur---and to kill you."

"Lucia…" Tristan repeated through gritted teeth, "I should have known."

"Yes, but, please---" added Tarra, "Please, you must believe that you were right one thing---about the part where I couldn't go through with it. I couldn't."

He studied her for a moment, searching her eyes to determine the honesty of her words. "I know," he assured her finally, "But nevertheless, you're not leaving. You've thrown these events into motion, and now you're going to set them right. You're going to tell Arthur everything you know---the truth this time."

"If I go back to the wall---they'll kill me."

"Without a doubt they would---if you returned alone. No, you will return with me, and I promise no harm will come to you."

"How do I know that I can trust you?"

"You don't. So that makes us even," he answered, "Now, hurry. This storm has only begun to brew."


	14. Chapter 14

The door to the hall swung open and Tarra strode confidently over to where Arthur and the knights sat at the round table with Tristan following close behind. She ignored their startled expressions and dropped jaws and took a seat next to the bewildered Arthur, leaning comfortably back in her chair and propping one leg up on the table. Tristan glared at her, trying to communicate a nonverbal warning, but she paid him no attention. It was in her nature to put on pretenses, a kind of defense mechanism to shield herself from the world's disapproving eye.

"Hope I didn't miss anything important," she remarked casually. Her composure was unusually cocky and cavalier, as she exaggerated her perfunctory body language to convey her indifference to any poor opinion anyone in the room might have been holding towards her. Tarra's apathy, however, did not deter Lancelot from making his especially vile opinion of her known by immediately getting up from his chair and storming out of the hall, shooting Tristan a disapproving look as he passed.

"Damn, what'd you do to piss him off?" she asked Tristan, pretending to be oblivious to the real source of Lancelot's indignation. Tristan narrowed his eyes at her and cursed himself for not just leaving her to rot in the forest.

"What the hell is she doing here?" Gawain angrily demanded in reference to Tarra.

"I was about to ask the same thing. Tristan, what is the meaning of this?" Arthur asked apprehensively to his trusted scout.

"So much for a warm welcome," muttered Tarra sarcastically.

"Tarra," Tristan said in a tone that was a cue for her stop acting obnoxiously, "has important information that I believe would be of great interest to you. She---repents---of any previous involvement in schemes against you and wants to prove that she can be of great help and use to you."

"I do?" Tarra asked in feigned confusion, but after another disapproving glare from Tristan continued on in a voice that seemed less than sincere, "Oh, right. Yes. I'm very sorry, Arthur. It was nothing personal. And, umm, there was something else. What was it?"

"The important information you were supposed to tell me?" interrupted Arthur impatiently.

"Oh, yes! Right, right," she continued, "As you know, Barak Mahal gave me orders to have you killed. I don't know for sure who commissioned him, but I was supposed to get seventy-five percent of the reward for taking over the job, which I have to admit came about by some brilliant bartering on my part. Anyways, if I had gone through with it, I would have ended up with an extra two hundred gold coins plus the one hundred I was paid in advance by the one and only Lucia Gaius…"

Arthur's eyes widened at the mention of the name. "Lucia!" he exclaimed.

"Yes," confirmed Tarra, "And, being as concerned for my welfare as I know you to be, you might also take note of what I said about being paid in advance for a job I have not yet executed. Executed? Ha! Such a clever turn of phrase, no? Anyways, as I was saying, since those one hundred coins were given to me with the confidence of my achieving the desired results, you can see that it does not bode well for me that you're still sitting here staring at me with a securely placed head on your shoulders."

"Do you ever think of anyone besides yourself?" asked Arthur in exasperation.

"Not really, no," Tarra replied with brutal honesty, "So, my idea is that you let me take your head, and I'll split the earnings with you 50/50. Of course, the money won't do you much good as you'll be dead, so maybe I'll just keep your share and---"

"You really expect me to trust her?" Arthur asked Tristan with a sigh of skepticism, not sharing Tarra's amusement at the situation.

"Oh, lighten up, Arthur. I was only kidding," said Tarra rolling her eyes, "You take everything so seriously."

"Yes," Arthur responded heatedly, "I do take assassination attempts on my life very seriously."

"If there is any resonance in my own trust in her that might persuade you," Tristan answered calmly to Arthur's previous question, "it is in the fact that your head was not the only one she needed to receive the rest of those three hundred gold coins. Lucia paid her to kill me as well."

Arthur furrowed his eyebrows at Tristan. "Yet it was you who warned me from the start of her iniquitous and dubious nature---and you stand here now vouching for her loyalty? You choose to trust her now? After she plotted to take both our lives?"

"We are not so easy to kill," answered Tristan plainly, "Besides, you know what she did for Jillian in the forest…"

"You are blinded, then," said Arthur solemnly, "by your undoubted love for Jillian and the grief over your lost child."

A rush of anger flushed across Tristan's face, but Tarra spoke before he could voice his offense at Arthur's insinuation. "No you are blinded!" she cried, "By your own self-importance and your inability to see things as anything but either good or evil, right or wrong. There is no in between for you. So to you I will perhaps always be nefarious and depraved, but that does not change the fact that you need me."

"Need you?" Arthur scoffed.

"Yes. I know where Lucia is, and I can lead you to her."

"What makes you think that I'm even interested in finding her?"

"Well, that's simple," said Tarra, "Do you remember what I told you about Sultan Arif mixing up his correspondence to his old friend and to the Sultan of Petra, which in turn ended the peace between Bostra and Petra? Now, you may recall my describing Bostra as a very arid land, whereas Petra is lush and fertile. For many years, warriors from Bostra attacked Petra in hopes of conquering the ancient city and acquiescing that land for themselves. Petra, however, as I afore mentioned, is surrounded by a tall, impenetrable wall which rendered every assault ineffective. Though his mistake of correspondence perhaps only confirmed Sultan Arif's reputation as an old fool, I rather like to see it as an inadvertently crafted Trojan horse because the Sultan of Petra, so abhorred and offended by the presumed insult to his daughter that the correspondence carried, answered the mistaken provocation by coming out from behind his high walls and calling together his entire army for an assault against Bostra.

"When the army of Petra reached Bostra, however, they were shocked to find it completely deserted. You see, Sultan Arif had realized his mistake shortly after sending the letter and, therefore, anticipated the Sultan of Petra's response by preemptively leading his army the long way around to Petra. When Sultan Arif and his troops arrived, the Petran army had already gone, leaving no one left to sustain the wall and defend the city. Not only did Sultan Arif's army easily capture the city, but they also found safety behind the high wall from any further attacks made by the Sultan of Petra and plenty of fertile land to farm. The Sultan of Petra, on the other hand, was left with nothing more than the conquering of an already deserted city built on land too dry to farm."

"That's all very interesting," said Arthur impatiently, "but I think I'm missing its relevance to the situation at hand."

"There was supposed to be relevance?" Arthur groaned and rolled his eyes in exasperation. "I'm kidding! I'm kidding!" she assured him, amused at his annoyance, "You see, Arthur, my standing here before you proves that Hadrian's Wall, unlike the wall at Petra, is more than penetrable especially by skulking assassins, but as fortune would have it, you, like Sultan Arif, have the advantage of doing the unexpected. Lucia expects you to remain here in Briton, but why should you? Don't wait around for her to send assassin after assassin. As you might have imagined, after Lucia gave me the assignment to kill you, one of her servants took me aside and gave me directions as to where exactly to find Lucia after completing my mission. I'm willing to share this knowledge with you as proof that I can be trusted. Let me lead you to her---to catch her off guard---be done with this once and for all. What do you say?"

Arthur looked at her thoughtfully for a minute, and then gave a sigh of resignation. "Very well," he said, "Where is it that we'll be headed? Rome, I assume?"

"A little closer to home," Tarra replied with an assured grin, "France---which is interesting since that was the same location at which I was supposed to report back to Barak."

Arthur raised an eyebrow, "What are you suggesting? That there's a connection between Lucia and Barak?"

"Oh, I'm not suggesting anything. I just find it interesting is all. But I suppose it's possible," replied Tarra, "She might have been paying multiple assassins to come after you, including both myself and Barak. You must have really pissed off this woman."

"It's a long story."

"Whatever. It's your business, I guess, but like I said, if anything's to be done, we should do it quickly. And the place to go is France."

"You're points are well taken, and I suppose it really doesn't make sense to just stay here, waiting around. We'll leave first thing in the morning," said Arthur. "Tristan," he added, "Make sure she stays out of trouble." Tarra gave a devious smile as Tristan nodded his assurance to Arthur. Things hadn't turned out so poorly after all.

--------------------

They remained in the hall for another hour discussing the details of their journey before Tarra and Tristan returned check on Jillian, who, due to her debilitated state, was prescribed to bed rest. Jillian lifted her eyes with a smile to Tarra who entered the room with her hands full of books and manuscripts. "Jilly, you're going to be so proud of me," she said cheerfully, "I have every kind of reading material here you could possibly want. Is it true you're to be bedridden for the next two weeks? Well, don't worry about that. It'll pass in no time."

"Yes, it's true. Or at least, those are the healer's orders," Jillian groaned.

"And you'll follow those orders or else I'll bind you to the bed myself," threatened Tristan who had entered the room shortly after Tarra.

"Alright, alright, you can just stop right there," ordered Tarra, pinching her nose up in disgust, "You're corrupting my innocent mind with your salacious suggestions and I warn you, I may never recover from the traumatizing image that is now forever ingrained in my mind."

"Innocent my ass," Tristan mumbled under his breath as he took a seat in the corner of the room.

"I heard that!" snapped Tarra, hopping up on the bed with Jillian and sitting cross-legged facing her. She spread out the reading material between them, perusing the covers as she laid them out.

Jillian watched her with her beautiful wide eyes that were always filled with kindness and asked in a voice that was neither judgmental nor blaming, "Is it true then that you were sent here to murder Arthur?"

Tarra cleared her throat nervously, "Murder is such a harsh word…"

"Aye, but we're all guilty of it here," she said warmly, "I'm a woad, you know, and it was only less than two years ago that I would have killed Arthur for free. So you see, Tarra, I cannot condemn you anymore than I could condemn myself. I'm glad Tristan was able to find you and bring you back."

"Ah ha!" exclaimed Tarra, finally putting the pieces together, "I should have known you were behind his seemingly gratuitous act of chivalry. I was wondering why he was acting so out of character."

"_He _is still in the room," muttered Tristan from the corner, "And chivalry is not out of my character. I can be chivalrous."

"Yeah, and I'm the bloody epitome of piety," Tarra scoffed.

"You have no idea how happy I am that you're leaving tomorrow," he said with a scowl.

"Leaving?" interjected Jillian with surprise, "Where are you going?"

"Arthur, some of the knights, and I are going to France to track down Lucia," Tarra answered.

"Some of the knights?" Jillian asked, turning to Tristan, "You're not going?"

"I was going to stay here with you. Bors is staying behind as well. A few of the kids are sick and Vanora'll give him hell if he leaves again so soon."

"No," Jillian replied, a little more hastily than she had intended, "I think you should go."

Tristan's famously stoic face was not enough to hide his disappointment. He understood that Jillian needed time and space to heal, but he felt an ever expanding rift splitting the space between them. He kept having a recurring image of her grief ridden face shrinking into the distance. She was like water, and no matter how frantically he grasped to hold on, she would slip through his fingers.

"I mean," Jillian quickly added, "I'll be fine here. Like you said, Bors will be here. And I think you'd go mad having to sit around here all day with me bedridden."

"If you don't want me here, you can just say so," said Tristan with a hint of resentment.

"Maybe I should---uhh---give you guys some privacy," interjected Tarra, swinging her legs around to the edge of the bed and climbing down to her feet. She discreetly ducked out of the room, leaving Tristan and Jillian to sort out their affairs. She was certainly glad _she _didn't have to deal with all the issues and inconveniences that came with romantic relationships. She was lucky.

Tarra walked aimlessly around the fort deep in her own thoughts, having no concept of how much time had passed until daylight broke across the sky. She blinked her eyes in disbelief. Had she really been wandering around all night? The combination of her soothing steps and the brisk night air had led her into a kind of euphoria that whisked her away from everything that was real, everything of consequence.

Yet, despite her state of complete detachment, she had managed to reach a decision, a course of action. She made an immediate right turn and headed purposefully towards Lancelot's quarters. If he was planning to make the journey with them to France, then she simply could not have any more of this hostility between them. She could handle foes of any kind, and with style, she might add; but a cold shoulder was enough to send her into the utmost discomfiture. But the plan was simple. She would work her charms on him, apologize, and things would go back to the way they were. No problem!

Tarra reached Lancelot's quarters presently and tapped lightly on the door. Without waiting for a response, she swung the door open, but was met with a sight that made her heart sink to the pit of her stomach. Lancelot stood over his bed half-naked, drawing up the strings of his trousers. On his bed, a tangled mess of blond curls cascaded down the curve of a woman's bare back. The woman turned her head at the sound of the door opening and looked at Tarra with piercing, crystal blue eyes that seemed to laugh at her in self-satisfaction.

Tarra felt a lump rising in her throat, but managed to choke out the words, "Umm, sorry. I must have the wrong room. I was---looking for---Arthur?"

"His quarters are at the _other_ end of the hall," said Lancelot coldly.

"Oh, right," stammered Tarra, "Sorry to interrupt. You can just---umm---go back to what you were doing."

She quickly shut the door behind her, banging the back of her head in self-castigation against its solid frame. _'Stupid. Stupid. Stupid, Tarra. Stupid!' _She paused, drew in a deep breath, straightened her posture, and walked proudly away.


	15. Chapter 15

Hey guys! Sorry it's taken me forever to update. My internet has been down all weekend! I promise the next update will be faster. Also, thank you etraya and Goddess for your kind reviews!

---------------------

In the desert  
I saw a creature, naked, bestial,  
Who, squatting upon the ground,  
Held his heart in his hands,  
And ate of it.  
I said: "Is it good, friend?"  
"It is bitter---bitter," he answered;  
"But I like it  
Because it is bitter,  
And because it is my heart."

-Stephen Crane

------------------------------------

Tarra noted that the stable looked different today, more benign perhaps, with the sun streaming through the open windows, than it had during the shadow-casting storm the day before. Regardless of these improvements in climate, she was eager to leave. There were too many painful memories here. Hindering their speedy departure, however, was Lancelot, taking his sweet time to join the rest of the party and forcing Tarra and the knights to idle impatiently in the stable waiting for him to grace them with his presence. Arthur had left ten minutes before to try to track down Lancelot, leaving the rest of them with nothing to do but sit around and stare at one another.

Tarra decided finally to break the silence. "So, I take it Jillian convinced you to come along?" she asked Tristan, noticing that he had decided to accompany them after all.

"I don't want to talk about it," he replied sourly, shoving his newly sharpened sword into its sheath. She knew not to press him about the matter. She perceived that Jillian and Tristan had hit a rough patch and, although she liked Jillian immensely, she honestly wasn't all that interested in her half-brother's romantic predicaments.

She therefore shrugged her shoulders casually and said, "Well, it's probably for the best."

"Some say that distance makes the heart grow fonder," offered Gawain sentimentally, "Like in the myth of---of---oh, what were their names?---Odysseus and Penelope! That was it! Remember, that queer legionnaire fellow stationed here from Athens that told us about them and a bunch of other queer stories? Well, regardless, _that_ was true love what they had."

"Ha! A load of bull is more like it," Tarra reviled, "I mean, sure, Penelope sat around waiting for Odysseus like a dolt, but what about his fidelity? He bloody slept with every available female he encountered on his way home. Men are fickle."

"_Men _are fickle?" scoffed Galahad, "What about women? Women are just as fickle, if not more so."

"Thanks guys," Tristan muttered sarcastically to himself, "This is making me feel much better."

"Galahad, you can not be serious," Tarra protested in disbelief, "Men are much more easily tempted than women. That's a fact. Take Lancelot for example. Have you ever met anyone so capricious? Why, just this morning I caught him in bed with---"

"---the woman I have been courting for five months," said Galahad solemnly, finishing her sentence, "Yes, ironic that I should need to seek out Lancelot to borrow his extra sheath on _this _morning."

"Ayiii! Your woman? Good gods, I'm surprised Lancelot even has an extra sheath, seeing as he never keeps his 'sword' put away for very long anyway, if you know what I mean," replied Tarra bitterly, "What a jerk---and what a foolish woman to fall for his devices when she should have been more than satisfied with your own devotion for her. You deserve better than that, Galahad."

"And you deserve better than Lancelot," said Galahad, his clear blue eyes now filled with sweetness and sincerity.

"What? I'm sorry?" Tarra blurted out with a startled laugh, "What in the world would give you the idea that I was even interested in that arrogant prick? No, no, he's definitely not for me. I'd sooner let a poisonous snake between my legs than his---"

"Speak of the devil!" Gawain interrupted quickly, bringing Tarra's obscenities to a halt. Arthur and Lancelot strode into the stable, Arthur looking stately and refined as usual and Lancelot looking fatigued and disheveled, but retaining the glow of a productive night spent. Lancelot ignored the cold stares he received from Tarra and Galahad and casually mounted his horse with an obnoxious yawn to remind them all that his night had been occupied by pleasantries other than sleep.

Once everyone had mounted their horses and were ready to go, Arthur announced in his usual, informative manner, "I have made arrangements for us to board a ship tomorrow evening departing for the French shore, but we'll have to make haste in order to catch it. Are there any last minute questions?"

"Yes, I have a question," said Tarra.

"Yes?"

"Is your entire purpose here simply to keep us on track and move our plot along?"

"I'm sorry?"  
"Nothing. Nevermind."

"Plot?" asked Gawain, "That's an odd choice of words. You act like this is some kind of story or something."

"Maybe it is, or it could be," Tarra contended, "At least, I've always thought of my life as a story, one enormous plot that just keeps on unraveling and unfolding. Life is an adventure, Gawain. You should take more time to enjoy it. Perhaps someday people will tell great tales of this voyage we're about to take, though I suppose I'll have to accept the responsibility of acting as the protagonist, seeing as our heroic commander here lacks any real depth or interest. No offense, Arthur, but what we're doing here is good enough to be handed down from generation to generation as a myth or a legend or some sort of thing, and I just don't think you're cut out to be the central focus."

"Yes, well, when you're busy running your own country and thwarting assassination attempts whilst trying to keep an ornery whelp of a woman out of trouble, I'd like to see you finding time to maintain yourself as a compelling character," answered Arthur pointedly.

"Honestly, Arthur, Guinevere would not like to hear you saying those kinds of things about her," scolded Tarra in return with a teasing smile. Arthur glared at her and rolled his eyes for the ornery whelp of a woman he had described was not his wife, but rather the lady sitting next to him on her horse with whom he was presently conversing.  
"Tarra, before we start on this journey, I must discuss something with you," Arthur asserted gravely.

"I think I feel a lecture coming on," groaned Tarra.

"I know you have your own ideas and opinions on a great deal of subjects, but there is one thing that you need to understand and that is that on this mission, I am in charge. We will do things according to my plans. I don't need you gallivanting around with your own foolhardy improvising," warned Arthur, "Now, I want you to make me a promise."

"Do I have to keep it?"

"Of course."

"In that case, no."

"It wasn't a question nor is it up for debate."

Tarra sighed and rolled her eyes, "Fine. What is it?"

"You will not do anything---_anything_ without first asking my consent, are we clear?" said Arthur, sternly.

"Yeah, yeah, we're clear, Sir Stodgy-face," muttered Tarra reluctantly.

"Arthur?" she added.

"What now?"

"My nose itches."

"And?"

"Can I scratch it?"

"Tarra!" Arthur cried in exasperation.

"What?" she returned innocently.

"You're incorrigible," he sighed.

"I do what I can," she rejoined.

-----------------------

Arthur, Tarra, and the knights flew from Hadrian's Wall atop horses that darted across the land like arrows sprung into flight across the sky. Soon, however, they had slowed their pace to a steady trot, trudging along the green, lush land that defined the country they called Briton. Lancelot, who had formerly positioned himself at the head of the line beside Arthur, now yielded his horse until he was side by side with Galahad who glared at him with a clenched jaw and eyes that seethed with repressed fury.

"Galahad," began Lancelot, "I wanted to explain about last night---"

"There's nothing to explain," Galahad retorted, looking away and keeping his eyes fixed straight ahead.

"No, I believe there is," Lancelot insisted, "Listen, she told me that it was over between the two of you."

"Funny," Galahad countered, "She neglected to inform me of that development."

Lancelot sighed, "You have to believe me. I know I joke around a lot, but I honestly would never have touched her if I had known the true circumstances between the two of you."

Galahad opened his mouth to respond, but a heated reply leapt out of Tarra's mouth before he got the chance. "Save your smooth-tongued appeals for one of your whores, Lancelot," she snapped, "For Galahad certainly won't be wooed by them."

"Perhaps you should mind your own affairs," Lancelot retaliated coldly, "For I assure you if he remains unaffected by my _heart-felt_ and _sincere_ appeals, he certainly cannot be wooed by your lies and manipulations."

"Hey! Lay off Tarra," Galahad ordered, defensively, "She's not the betrayer here."

"You mean that in all seriousness?" scoffed Lancelot, "After what she intended to do to Arthur, our commander, my best friend, by the gods, she is the worst betrayer of us all. I would have expected you, Galahad, of all people to see that."

"Yes, well, perhaps if your actions last night had remained only as intentions, I could have forgiven you as I have forgiven Tarra for hers," said Galahad with a wealth of wisdom unusual in his lack of years.

Lancelot let out a frustrated sigh, then returned to ride beside Arthur at the front of the line where he would be safely removed from the company of Galahad and Tarra who in the previous discourse had formed a new bond of confidence and friendship, united in their common grudge against him. As they rode side by side, Tarra took note of Galahad's disposition which after every passing moment degenerated deeper into gloominess and melancholy.

"Cheer up, Sir Sulky-drawers," teased Tarra light-heartedly, "Look on the bright side, maybe he did you a favor. You can move on and not squander anymore time with that unscrupulous woman now that you can see her for her true character."

"Yeah, you're right, I suppose. In fact, I vow from this moment on that I'm not going to waste one more single thought on that slut, whore, hussy, wench, she-devil, and---and---other names I can't think of at the moment," Galahad listed with contempt.

"Good for you!" applauded Tarra, "And I, likewise, am not going to waste another breath on that degenerate, swine, maggot, sleaze, good-for-nothing bastard! Not that there was anything between us, mind you."

"Of course not," said Galahad with a slyness that indicated he was not quite convinced, "But what would you do if he rode over here this very instant and pledged his undying devotion to you?"

"I'd kick him right in his lying face," replied Tarra fervently and without hesitation, "I've given up on the prospect of love with anyone long ago, if it can even be said that I ever wanted it in the first place. I've never been one for sentimentality, attachment, and the like---gives me hives."

"Well you have my complete support and I am behind you fully in your opinions," said Galahad, "I intend to wallow in my bitterness and enjoy every second of it. There will be no more of this thankless custom of courtship and ardor for me. From now on, I am immune to all temptations of affection and infatuation."

"Bravo!" exclaimed Tarra in approval, "We should form a community of likewise apathetic persons. Say Gawain, would you like to join our Society of Bitterness and Indifference?"

"Thank you, but no," Gawain declined, "I still have my heart set on finding a beautiful, amiable woman to wed."

"We'll see what good those traits will do you when she's making amiable in another man's bed while he deflowers her in all her beauty," replied Galahad, still absorbed in his melancholy.

"Well, if Gawain doesn't join," continued Tarra, "that just leaves us with Tristan, but somehow I think he's too enamored with a certain Briton to make a good candidate for Bitterness and Indifference."

At the mention of his name, Tristan looked over at them and spoke for the first time since their departure from Hadrian's Wall. "Or I'm just already too occupied with being indifferent to your bitterness," he suggested.

"It seems to me that your plan has one fatal flaw," commented Gawain.

"My plans? Flaws? Never!" Tarra protested.

"And what flaw might that be?" asked Galahad.

"Well," Gawain stated reasonably, "It seems to me that in your endeavor not to waste anymore time on amorous affairs, you will instead be wasting your time in a static state of that same bitterness and disappointment that you were trying to escape from in the first place."

"Hmmm…" said Galahad, thoughtfully, taking in what Gawain had said.

"Oh, don't listen to him, Galahad," Tarra retorted, "He's misinterpreted the entire thing completely! The Society of Bitterness and Indifference is only bitter and indifferent to romantic relationships, not to the essence of life itself. We simply refuse to let our state of happiness be defined by another. Honestly, if you can't be happy without a lover, you'll never find happiness with one."

"Hmmm…" repeated Galahad, again thoughtfully, "Sorry, Gawain, I think I'm with Tarra on this one."

"Of course you are because together we're---"

"---bitter and indifferent!"

"And delighting in every minute of it!"


	16. Chapter 16

A man said to the universe:  
"Sir I exist!"  
"However," replied the universe,  
"The fact has not created in me  
A sense of obligation."

-Stephen Crane

--------------------------------------

The sky had nestled under night's dark blanket and the only indicator of their having reached the island's edge was the rhythmic percussion of the waves crashing against the boulders that lined the shore. The familiar figure of a lanky man with limbs that flailed about as he bounded towards them greeted Arthur at their arrival.

"Commander! Sir! Your majesty!" he exclaimed, uncertain of which formal address he should employ, "What an honor that we should meet again!"

"Hello…" returned Arthur hesitantly, "Do I…know you?"

"Don't you remember me?" the man replied in his boisterous, overexcited manner, "I'm Ganis! I served you proudly at the battle of Badon Hill!"

"Ah, right," said Arthur, his memory having been jogged, "Of course I remember. And how has life been treating you since we last parted, Ganis? No more snuffing at the grass, I trust?"

Ganis threw his closely shaved head back and laughed at the recollection of his grievances against the conditions at Marius's estate where Arthur and his knights had rescued him and the other villagers from the Saxon invasion. "No, no, I am doing quite well," Ganis assured him, "I'm running my own shipping business now. In fact, it is one of my ships that you will carry you across to the French shore."

"Excellent," Arthur praised, "And will you be accompanying us?"

"No, no, not me," Ganis answered, shaking his head, "I have other business to attend to."

"Of course," said Arthur, careful to hide his relief that he wouldn't have to bear this rather peculiar character's presence throughout the long journey ahead.

Ganis furrowed his less than striking brow at the sight of Tarra. "Say, do I know you from somewhere?" he said, scratching his head pensively.

Tarra cracked a bemused smile at his inability to recognize her out of her captain's disguise. "I'm sure that's quite impossible," she insisted, "for this is my first visit to Briton."

"Hmm…" said Ganis, still puzzled, "I swear you remind me of someone."

"Oh, I get that quite often," explained Tarra, "In fact, I was once mistaken for General Octavius of the Roman army. Of course, that might have had something to do with the fact that I was adorned in his full war gear and helmet. You see, I had to find a way to gain access to the interior section of the main palace in Sicily. Now that took some maneuvering, let me tell you, first I had to---"

"Perhaps we should begin boarding the vessel?" suggested Arthur, concerned with the urgency with which was necessary for them to disembark and not in the mood for another one of Tarra's stories.

"Certainly!" replied Ganis, picking up his feet and marching towards one of the docked ships, waving his hand eagerly for Arthur and the knights to follow, "Right this way!"

To look upon the beautiful vessel that heaved upon the water with the motion of the waves, one found a sudden comprehension as to why ships are traditionally referred to in feminine terms such as "she" or "her." The curved frame and sails that fluttered in the breeze like a woman's long locks of hair made the ship worthy of her name _Aphrodite_. The knights clamored aboard, hauling their loads of weaponry and supplies with them.

"So long, Janice!" Tarra shouted over her shoulder as she boarded the ship.

"It's Ganis, actually!" he called back to her.

"Whatever!"

Arthur had hired a small crew to accompany them and manage the ship, for neither he nor his knights knew the first thing about sailing. Once they had cast off, the knights began to relax and meander about the deck. Tarra strolled over to where Tristan stood leaning against the rail of the ship.

"I'm hungry," she announced to him in agitation like that of a petulant child.

He looked at her derisively. "And?" What was he supposed to do about it?

"Let me have one of your apples."

"I don't have any."

"Yeah, right. You're a terrible liar."

"Well, I haven't had as much practice as you," he argued pointedly.

"Ah ha!" she exclaimed, "So you _did_ bring apples. You're so predictable. Now, come on! Let me have one."

"No."

"Please!"

"You should have brought your own."

"But I knew you were going to bring some." A pause passed between them before Tarra looked up at him with the most pitiful, pleading expression she could muster. "Please…?"

He sighed and reached into his satchel. "Fine," he consented in exasperation, handing her a bright green apple. Maybe if he gave it to her, she would go away.

"Thank you! Thank you! Thank you!" she squealed, biting into it hungrily. Tristan raised his eyebrow half in amusement and half in disgust at her as he watched her skip happily away over to where Galahad stood by the ship's mast.

"Where did you get that?" Galahad asked, noting Tarra's apple with envy.

"Tristan," Tarra replied light-heartedly, as though there were nothing unusual about this response.

"Really?" said Galahad, raising a skeptical eyebrow, "How did you manage that, I wonder?"

Tarra gave a self-assured shrug. "Oh, I dare say I have him quite wrapped around my little finger," she quipped.

"Somehow, I rather doubt that is the case."

"You don't believe me? Here, I'll prove it."

She called over to the knight who at her departure had taken up meticulously sharpening his dagger, "Tristan! Say 'what.'"

"What?" Tristan asked, looking up in disorientation at having been disrupted from his work.

"See!" exclaimed Tarra in gleeful triumph to Galahad.

Galahad laughed and rolled his eyes. "How could I ever have doubted you?" he asked sarcastically.

Tarra laughed jovially in return, a broad grin spreading across her face and a sparkle illuminating her dark eyes. "You know, Galahad," she said earnestly, "I had really expected you to hold more of a grudge against me---for the whole Barak-Arthur-assassination incident."

Galahad looked at her in his usual, warm manner, enchanted by the mix of her smile and the cool sea breeze. "And why would you think that?" he asked in amusement.

Tarra shrugged noncommittally. "Oh, I don't know," she said thoughtfully, "I suppose I just took you for the firm, unwavering type that does not forgive offenses easily or without severe penitence."

"I'm passionate, quick-tempered, opinionated," he admitted, then added with a smile of protestation, "But I'm not entirely cold-hearted or merciless."

Tarra laughed apologetically, "I didn't mean to imply---"

"I know," he quickly assured her, "How did you end up in that business, anyway? What brought you to such familiar terms with a sinister character like that---that---"

"Barak Mahal?"

"Yes, how did you find yourself working for him?"

"When you're poor, starving, and female in a large city such as Rome filled with villainy and indiscretion, you can either sell your body or sell your soul," she said in a casual, matter-of-fact tone that caused an even greater unease in her listener than the words themselves, "Since I don't put much stock in religion or the value of something as intangible as the soul, I saw the act of selling it to be of no certain consequence nor of any real detriment to myself, while the price I would receive for it in return was well worth its loss.

"But I am getting ahead of myself. You see, I came to Rome when I was not but ten or eleven years of age. I was all alone in that bustling, expansive city without relative, friend, or acquaintance. I probably would have starved to death within a week had an old merchant not taken pity on me and fed me scraps like he would a mangy dog. At the end of each day, he would save the excess vegetables for me from his supply that he had been unable to sell at the market that day.

"His charity would not last forever, though, and one night he told me that, being young and of an agreeable figure, I should try to find work and a means of supporting myself. 'What kind of work?' I asked, remarkably naïve to the type of employment that might require youth and an agreeable figure.

"'Do you see that man crossing the alleyway over there?' he asked, pointing to the man with his long, crooked finger. I nodded in affirmation. 'Go right on over to him then, and ask him if he's looking for some pleasure this evening,' the old man advised, 'If he says yes, you be good and obliging, and he will give you money.' He said nothing else about what this 'pleasure' would entail and, as I'm sure you can relate, young minds tend to be naturally blinded to all darkness and evil in the world. I therefore did as the old merchant said, not giving a single thought to what trouble I might be getting myself into.

"The man in the alleyway was tall with broad shoulders and translucent green eyes that glowed like a cat's in the dark. He was dressed all in black and appeared distracted as he advanced stealthily through the alleyway, glancing warily from side to side. I shuffled up behind him and cleared my throat to catch his attention. 'What do you want?' he asked in a gruff voice, looking down at me crossly.

"'Are you looking for some pleasure this evening?' I recited dumbly as the old merchant had instructed. It wasn't until that moment that I wondered how exactly I could help this man find 'pleasure.'

"But the man seemed to recognize my words and smiled down at me with teeth as white as a politician's robe. His eyes trailed up and down my body, assessing every line and curve; and he leaned toward me like a lion about to devour its prey. I immediately recoiled out of instinct because, as you know, I have an aversion to contact. To my relief, he suddenly stopped short as if he'd had a second thought. 'No,' he said in a ragged voice that came out muffled and choked, 'Now you run along and get off the streets. There are dangerous men about.'

"'Please,' I protested as he turned away, 'I need money.'

"'Don't we all,' he replied, then surveying me once again added, 'Do you even know what you're offering?' When I shook my head that I did not know, an amused, devious smile crawled across his face. He leaned towards me once again and this time whispered obscene descriptions in my ear, which I feel no necessity to repeat to you now, but needless to say, made my eyes bulge from their sockets and kicked the wind from my lungs.

"At that moment, however, a corpulent, bumbling Roman officer appeared out of nowhere and grabbed the man's shoulder, spinning him around so that they were face to face. 'I have you now!' he boomed triumphantly, his nostrils flaring from exertion, 'Don't even think about trying to escape again.'

"'I'm afraid there must be some kind of misunderstanding,' the man protested.

"'No misunderstanding,' the Roman officer growled, 'Now hand over those papers. We don't want any trouble.'

"'Uhh, I'm sorry, what papers?' the man in black replied in a voice that was trying too hard to sound innocent.

"'Nice try,' the officer snarled, placing his hand to the hilt of his sword menacingly, 'Now hand them over.'

"'I assure you I have no papers,' the man insisted, his voice unbelievably calm under the circumstances.

"'Don't play games with me, swine,' the Roman warned, 'I saw you skulking away from the estate with that parchment. Now you hand it over to me or I will relieve it from your cold, stiff corpse.'

"The man stood completely still for a moment and I wondered if he was even breathing. Evaluating the situation at hand and realizing that he was cornered, the man reached into his sleeve and pulled out a parcel of parchment which he handed over reluctantly to the Roman. The Roman officer studied the papers, scratching his bald head pensively. My eyes, however, were on this mysterious man's other hand as it reached into the waist of his trousers, revealing the metallic shine of a dagger's blade. The air seemed too still, too quiet around us and filled with an eerie, electric static.

"To this day, I cannot tell you what prompted me into action, but I immediately turned my attention back to the Roman officer who was still studying the parchment and let loose my tongue that cracked through the silence like the lash of a whip. 'You can't read, can you?' I asked condescendingly. He looked up, noticing me for the first time, and glared at me with narrowed, resentful eyes. 'Because if you could read,' I continued mercilessly, 'You would know that those papers contain the last will and testament of a politician of such importance that I could not disclose the name to such a lowly officer as yourself. You might have guessed at this unfortunate death, but I can see, however, that you did not have the perceptiveness to ascertain from the color of this man's garments that he is in mourning. Clearly, the Roman army is no longer training its officers with the same rigor and stringency, for if it were, you would know that exiting an estate with a piece of correspondence is neither rare nor a crime. Now, give this man back the parcel or I will be forced to report this incident to your commander.'

"The Roman officer looked at me skeptically, causing my heart to pound frantically in my chest. I held his stare, though, with the confidence of one who speaks only the truth, something I would know little about. 'You are only a child,' he protested finally, 'What possible authority could you claim?'

"'I really don't think you want to risk finding out,' I warned, keeping my eyes locked on his. He glanced back down at the papers once more with uncertainty and then cautiously handed them back to the man who gracefully slid them back into his sleeve. 'You two stay out of trouble,' the Roman ordered in a voice that seemed more wary than stern. The mysterious man in black nodded to the officer, his bright green eyes ripping through the space that separated their gazes.

"When the Roman officer was out of sight, he turned back to me. 'What is your name?' he demanded.

"'Tarra,' I answered with a defiant, self-assured smile.

"'And you need money,' he said more as a statement than a question.

"'I need money,' I repeated in affirmation.

"'I might have some work for you,' he said, once again examining me with his scrutinizing eyes.

"'Who are you?' I asked.

"He grinned with his immaculate white teeth. 'Barak Mahal.'

"And the rest I will leave to your imagination," Tarra concluded to her attentive listener, Galahad who stood enraptured in the sound of her voice, the energy with which she spoke her words, and the animated expressions that crossed her face as she recalled certain events.

"What did the parchment really contain?" he asked curiously, finally waking from the spell she had cast over him, "I'm afraid my imagination is devoid of conjectures on that point."

"Probably some piece of blackmail or other secret information that wasn't supposed to get out. We did a lot of that sort of thing," Tarra answered as though she were speaking of an everyday occurrence familiar to most people.

Galahad stroked the growing stubble on his chin with a thoughtful expression on his face. "Well?" said Tarra impatiently, "Aren't you going to say anything?"

Galahad looked at her and laughed in his friendly, good natured way. "I'm just taking it in is all," he replied warmly, slowly edging towards her, "You've certainly led an interesting life."

"I've had my moments," Tarra remarked with a shrug, noting his subtle advance.

"And you have a great gift for story-telling," he added, moving a little closer.

"I love words," Tarra said simply, "I've always considered my tongue to be my weapon of choice."

Galahad gulped, his face reddening, as he took her meaning differently than she had intended. They stood silently studying each other for a moment until Tarra observed suddenly that Galahad had removed his eyes from her and had fixed them on some unknown object behind her. Tarra turned to where his gaze was directed only to lock eyes with Lancelot who stood not but a few feet away observing them. Before she could read his expression, however, he quickly averted his eyes and turned his back to them in order to lean over the rail and admire the sea.

"Looks like someone is jealous," Galahad snickered. Tarra scoffed at the statement, letting out a laugh of protestation. Of what had Lancelot to be jealous? Galahad certainly could be absurd sometimes.


	17. Chapter 17

Ok, guys! Here's the next chapter. Since there's been a little confusion over Tarra's age, I thought I'd clarify that she's probably in her early 20s, though I suppose she could be as young as 18. It's really however you want to imagine her. As far as chronology goes, she was raised by gypsies until age 10 or 11 when she went to Rome and worked with Barak Mahal for another almost 10 years. Then he sends her to Arabia where she meets the Sultan and lives there for 2 years after which point we meet up with the present story. I hope that all makes sense, and I'll try to clarify it a bit more in future chapters. Sorry for the confusion! Sometimes I get too lost inside my own head and forget to explain stuff fully. Just let me know if anything else confuses you!

I'll also apologize for the flashback scene in this chapter because I always feel so weird writing more intimate scenes, so I hope this turned out ok!

---------------------------------------------

I saw a man pursuing the horizon;  
Round and round they sped.  
I was disturbed at this;  
I accosted the man.  
"It is futile," I said.  
"You can never —"  
"You lie," he cried,  
And ran on.

-Stephen Crane

---------------------------------------------

"Red sky in the morning, sailor's warning. Red sky at night, sailor's delight." Tristan did not know where he had heard these words, but the simplicity of their rhyme repeated relentlessly over and over again in his head. "Red sky in the morning, sailor's warning. Red sky at night, sailor's delight." He knew that a red sky at day break meant that a storm was coming and wondered if a sky ever truly turned red, red like blood that seeps from a wound, not the pink, faded red that reflects off the clouds.

This morning, however, had not painted the sky in hues of reds and pinks but in shades of gray stained by the glistening gold that spilt from dawn's arrival. Tristan stood leaning over the rail on the starboard side of the ship, his back to the rising sun. He stared out into the fading ash of twilight's struggle not to dissipate from the sky, but his mind was not on the sublimity of the sea. Instead, his thoughts were absorbed in thoughts of what he had left behind, thoughts of the past, and thoughts of Jillian.

The memory of one day in particular crept into his mind like the light that creeps across the sky to ring in the morning. The day was one of early spring two weeks after the battle at Badon Hill. Due to their suffering from more substantial injuries from the fight, Tristan and Lancelot had been banished to the recovery quarters of the fort where the healers could keep close eyes on their conditions.

The first week of bedridden confinement had been tolerable for Tristan, but when Lancelot's awakened states of consciousness increased in frequency in the second week, Tristan found his situation utterly unbearable. When Lancelot wasn't seducing the nurses or healer's helpers, he was griping to them about the pain, and when there were no nurses around to complain to, he had but to turn his head to Tristan who lay in the bed next to him with no other choice but to listen.

Each morning the nurses would make their rounds through the rows of injured warriors who lay indisposed in their beds and would ask if they needed any herbs for the pain. The wounded men's responses to this question always being in the affirmative came as no great surprise to the nurses. The exception, of course, was in the case of Tristan who day after day had refused the narcotics until one morning when he begged for the strongest herbs they carried.

Lancelot spun his head around in surprise. "Are you feeling alright?" he asked with concern, "I've never heard you request the drugs before."

"I want to be unconscious," Tristan grumbled, leaning his head back against the pillow and closing his eyes.

"Because of the pain?"

"Because of your incessant voice."

Lancelot rolled his eyes, unaffected by Tristan's surliness. "Come to think of it, why _do_ you never take anything for the pain?" he asked.

"Pain is what it feels like to heal," Tristan said simply, "I won't numb myself to my body's renewal."

"Yes, well, you just see how well you can relish your pain when you're lying in bed with three broken ribs," Lancelot moaned with self pity.

Tristan wondered what grave sin he had committed to deserve this damnation into Lancelot's company. Yet every day a cool breeze swept through those fires of hell in the form of Jillian who never left Tristan long enough to succumb to the insanity that Lancelot's idiosyncrasies wrought upon him. She attended to him with a gentle care that eased his restlessness and irritation caused by the combination of physical inactivity of his body and the ceaseless activity of Lancelot's mouth. Sometimes Jillian would come bringing news of goings-on around the fort, while other times she would simply take a seat beside Tristan's bed and stare, almost in wonderment, at him. When he would inquire after her thoughts, she would simply smile and say something or other about the surrealism of life. She always had been philosophical in a thoughtful, endearing way.

The days progressed slowly as such, but the day that was now engrained in Tristan's memory was the day he was to be released from the care of the healers. Finally, he was able to move freely about, and he insisted he felt almost back to his usual self. He would perhaps not be charging into battle quite yet, but he felt well and invigorated.

He had expected Jillian to come that day---of course, she would come. After two strenuous, never-ending weeks, they would share the joy of his recovery. But it was late in the afternoon, the sun had almost finished setting, and still she had not come. Tristan's disappointment was beginning to show on his usually unalterable countenance.

"I'm telling you, it's one of those weird woman things that no one understands," explained Bors who had stopped by to pay Lancelot and Tristan a visit, "Whenever I'm sick or injured, Vanora fusses after me day and night like I'm a delicate newborn, but the second that I'm well again it's back to the same old 'Bors do this' and 'Bors stop your griping.' Now this woman of yours---Jillian---she knows you're all fixed up nice and good, so you just got to get used to the idea that she ain't gonna be comin' around so much anymore. You don't need her any longer, and women like to be needed."

Tristan let out a sad sigh and rose from his bed. Lancelot looked up at him. "Where are you going?" he demanded.

"I'm released, am I not?" Tristan muttered impatiently, "I'm getting out of here."

Tristan walked dejectedly to his quarters, his head hanging as low as his spirits. While the open air should have revitalized him, he was too absorbed in his own thoughts to take advantage of the much needed refreshment. He believed with certainty that Bors's explanation lacked validity, but he could devise no other reasons of his own that would account for Jillian's absence on such an important day. Yet there was still much that was uncertain in their relationship, for at that time, it was still in its early stages. They had confessed their love for one another, this was true, but only time would tell what lay ahead of them.

The door to his quarters groaned as he swung it open. He sympathized with the sentiment. The room was completely dark, but its familiarity soothed him so that he did not need light to recognize that he was home. The same scent, the same weaponry strewn about, everything remained how he remembered it. Everything except---

"I must be stealthier than I thought," came a familiar voice from the shadows, "Or else your senses have been dulled from illness."

In the corner, a flash of light sparked from an incense stick illuminating the outline of a face or perhaps the illumination had sparked from the eyes' incandescent intensity for he could not tell which was brighter: the flame of incense that danced in the shadows or the pair of eyes that glistened in the obscurity. The aroma from the incense drifted through the air, dispersing a mist between them. The corner of Tristan's mouth curled up in a smile of excitement and anticipation. Jillian had not forgotten him that day after all.

Her face was but a silhouette, the nose and mouth indiscernible, but the playfulness in her round, wide eyes betrayed her identity. "Oh I assure you," Tristan answered slyly, "my senses are as acute as ever."

Though still unable to see her mouth, he knew it held a mischievous smile. "Do you always allow yourself to be caught off guard by intruders, then?" she teased.

"Never," he replied, playing along with her game, "But you can be certain they are dealt with harshly."

A flicker of salacity danced across her eyes like a star shooting across the night's sky. "If you can catch them…" she challenged with a provocative whisper as she swiftly blew out the flame of incense and disappeared instantly into the shadows. He turned at the sound of a creak in the floor board, the flapping of the curtains in a gust of wind from the window, and then he was alone. So began the chase.

Tristan's heart beat wildly as he quickly trailed after Jillian through the fort. Whenever he felt that he was gaining on her, she slipped around a corner or spurted off in a different direction. Eventually, they were outside the main wall bounding off into the woods.

The forest was where Jillian gained a true advantage for she had lived her entire life in those woodlands, giving her intimate familiarity with every rock, tree, and clearing. Tristan, however, was certainly not out of his element either with his well-developed scouting skills that allowed him to be attuned to the faintest of sounds and the slightest of movements. In this manner they raced through the forest; the predator and the prey, the hunter and the hunted. Their game of seduction was the most primitive, the most passionate, and the most pure.

Tristan paused momentarily to catch his breath, his eyes scanning the moonlit surroundings that consisted of nothing more than leafed branches swaying in the breeze. The pounding of his heart echoed through his body like a war drum. Everything felt accelerated; the blood through his veins, the thoughts through his mind, everything speeding, spinning. No matter how far she ran, he would follow her. No matter where she hid, he would find her.

His head whipped around at the snap of a twig only to discover a skinny-legged fawn frozen in fright. An unsuppressed titter of laughter echoed from the opposite direction behind him and again he was dashing---no---he was flying through the trees. Ahead of him, he could see the wind combing through Jillian's long brown hair, the same wind that brushed across his face. They were sprinting parallel to a river now, their feet pounding out the percussion to the rhythm of the water running beside them.

Suddenly, the river's song changed from running to falling, and Jillian halted at the edge of a cascading waterfall that brought her path to an end. She turned back to Tristan who was now standing directly behind her, towering over her, basking in his moment of victory. Refusing to accept defeat, however, she pursed her lips tenaciously, laughed mockingly with her eyes, turned, and dove off the edge into the waters below.

Tristan laughed aloud at her obstinacy and without hesitation, dove in after her. He felt his body penetrate the cool water and then break above the surface where Jillian waited, her hair soaked and smoothed back, her eyes shining in desire and expectancy. He swam over to her and then he had her with his eyes, with his hands, and finally with his mouth. He felt their mergence, their union. Her heart fell into his chest so that he knew not if the pulsation and rapidity were hers or his own. Their spirits intertwined and their bodies mimicked the entanglement.

The river's current carried them ashore, depositing them on the river bank, and Tristan's mind was now deposited into the present. So much had happened since that night. Would there ever be a night like that again? Six weeks later Jillian had taken him by the hand and told him he was to become a father. And how very much had happened since _that_ day. How far they had strayed…

He should not have left her. He should not have let Jillian send him away. He should have insisted---demanded---on staying with her until she was well. Had she not done the same for him? How foolish he had acted. Every second that ship carried him further away from her, while he could do nothing but yearn for her voice, ache for her touch. The separation was unbearable; yet, their current rift was only a physical imitation of their emotional distance. Whether Tristan was a thousand miles away or at Jillian's bed side mattered not for their world no longer existed in enchanted evenings of moonlight and waterfalls, but of harsh realities of mourning and loss, and he had no idea how to make it right again. His heart felt like a stone, its weight sinking down into his stomach. Desperation.

"The view is better on the other side of the ship," mused Tarra, awakening Tristan from his dreamlike state of staring out into the sea, drowning in memories. Her voice startled him, for he had not even noticed her presence until that moment. She stood leaning her back against the rail, the glow of the rising sun on her face.

"I'm sorry, what did you say?" he asked, shaking all remaining thoughts from his mind.

"I said the view is better on the other side of the ship," Tarra repeated, "The sun is beautiful." Tristan shrugged his shoulders indifferently in reply, still staring off into the fading darkness to the west. "It's almost something we take for granted," she continued thoughtfully, "the rising of the sun each morning. The Sultan Arif, you know, he used to have a recurring terror every night that the sun had fallen to its death forever, never to return, leaving the world consumed in darkness. We spent hours every night trying to convince that senile, old man that of course the sun was not gone forever, but would come back in the morning. He was very foolish, yet I always felt sorry for him. Can you imagine living without the certainty of the sun's returning each morning or the promise of a new day? I mean, if we have nothing else, we at least have that. We'll always have our hope."

Tristan looked at Tarra with a firmness and understanding. Then he turned around to lean his back against the rail and faced dawn's arrival. He had that, at least.


	18. Chapter 18

I've made a few minor edits to the first chapter after I realized some gaping plot holes. Though, I suppose like any romantic drivel, the plot only serves the purpose of keeping the characters occupied while they're not falling in love with each other (haha, only kidding...maybe). Anyways, here's the next chapter!

-------------------

The rapping of a fist that pounded hard against Jillian's door caused the hinges to rattle against the frame. At the startling sound, Jillian perked up her head from beneath a pile of manuscripts that lay scattered across her bed. She waded frantically through the papery grave in which she had buried herself, quickly brushing her hair out of her face and tucking it behind her ears to make herself more presentable. "Come in!" she called to her unexpected visitor.

The door swung open, revealing Bors' stout figure barging through the entryway. Jillian observed immediately the agitated and seemingly morose expression that marked his face before noticing the tray that he held in his hands. Vanora, out of the kindness of her heart and despite her own three sick children, had remembered to stop by Jillian's room each morning to bring her breakfast since she was supposed to be confined to bed rest. By the sight of the tray that Bors now held in his hands, however, Jillian ascertained that he had apparently taken over that job today.

"Is everything okay?" Jillian asked with concern as the afflicted Bors set the tray down on her bed, "I hope the children haven't gotten any worse…"

"Children? Oh, the little bastards. No, they're doing alright," he replied seeming somewhat distracted. Jillian opened her mouth as though about to make an interjection when Bors suddenly blurted out, "It's not them; it's me! I can't take it anymore! I'm going insane!"

"What? Why? What happened?"

"I must have been crazy. I must have been out of my mind. How did I let that damn woman---"

"Vanora?"

"---yes, Vanora. How did I let her talk me into staying here? I'm bloody stuck in this gods-forsaken place going out of my mind while everyone else is off gallivanting on a mission---which is exactly where I should be!"

"Bors," said Jillian level-headedly, "The children have been terribly ill and you know very well Vanora needs you here. You're doing your duty as a father by staying."

"And I'm neglecting my duty as a loyal knight to Arthur in the process," he bellowed in agitation, "Besides, number three is practically well already. I always liked that one---number three."

"Praise the gods! That is wonderful news! I am so glad to hear of his recovery," Jillian exclaimed in relief.

"Right, yes, it's very good, but in the mean time," Bors ranted, "Vanora won't give me a moment's rest. I finish doing what she asks of me, sit down, and put my feet up for one second and already she's nagging at me to do something else. I can't take it anymore. It's gotten to the point where I only _think _I'm hearing her obnoxious voice. It's in my head, ringing in my ears, grating on me, and when I respond, it turns out she hasn't said anything at all. Of course, my response only reminds her of my presence and once again, I'm assigned another ridiculous household chore. I just really need to kill something right now. Anything. I'm a warrior. I don't do this womanly housework business. It will be the end of me---and that's why you must grant me this favor. Please. You must."

"Of course, you have but to ask," said Jillian sweetly in compliance.

"Hide me!" he pleaded.

"Hide you?" she repeated in consternation.

"Yes, this is the last place Vanora'd look for me. I swear I can't take it any longer. Just let me stay here for today. I promise I won't disrupt---whatever it is you're doing---what _are _you doing?" he asked, taking note with curiosity of the papers spread across her bed.

"They're manuscripts on healing," Jillian explained, laughing warmly at Bors' emotional state that had quickly shifted from the bleakest desperation to childlike inquisitiveness. "Here," she offered, tossing one of the pamphlets over to the knight, "Maybe that will hold your attention."

Bors caught the manuscript with his rough, weathered hands and took a seat in the corner, pretending to peruse the pamphlet's contents. Jillian eyed the food sitting on the tray that Bors had brought her, considered it intently for a moment, but at last decided that she wasn't hungry and pushed it away. Bors observed her from over the top of the manuscript that he held up to his face and shook his head in disgust.

"Don't you think for a second I'm going to let you get away with that, missy," he warned, "You look like a stick with clothing hanging off of it. You need to eat something."

Jillian shrugged her shoulders indifferently. "I'm not hungry," she replied plainly.

"Hungry or not, either you eat that food voluntarily or I'll come over there and shove it down your throat. Don't think I won't," he threatened.

Jillian rolled her eyes. "I thought your entire reason for being here was to get _away _from babysitting," she muttered.

"It is," he affirmed, "which is why, for my sake at least, you need to stop acting like a damned child picking at your food."

Jillian let out a sigh of resignation. Clearly, Bors was not going to bend on this issue. Jillian pulled the tray up onto her lap and began nibbling on a piece of bread. She felt, without the gratification most experience from nourishment, the portion of bread roll around in her mouth as she painstakingly willed her jaw in the motion of chewing. She then gave a hard swallow, forcing the food down into her stomach that was twisted into knots.

"There!" said Bors with self-satisfaction, "Now, that's better." He turned his attention complacently back to the manuscript he was pretending to read.

"Bors," Jillian interrupted, "You're holding it upside-down."

"Of course! I knew that!" he insisted obstinately, "Reading right side up is just too easy for me, that's all. I get bored without a challenge."

"Right, of course. That makes perfect sense," Jillian responded, trying to stifle a smile that tickled the sides of her mouth. Bors seemed satisfied that he had her convinced, but the second she turned away, he quickly flipped the paper around so that it was right side up.

Meanwhile, Jillian once again buried herself in the written word, which to others would probably have seemed dreadfully dull, but she found relief in her ability to escape into the depths of her own concentration on the material. As long as she kept her mind occupied, as long as she kept on reading, as long as she kept herself distracted, the thoughts that she was trying so hard to escape would remain repressed and she could breathe. That's all that mattered. She had to breathe, one breath at a time.

But like the ocean tide, the banished thoughts always came flooding back, engulfing the shore of her consciousness. Soon, the words blurred together on the page in front of her and she fell between the dark lines into the endless white, suddenly finding herself in the memory of lying on the bank of the river with Tristan's strong arms wrapped tightly around her.

She remembered that night vividly because it was the first time they had made love and the first time she learned the kind of elation that could make the earth rumble and shake. Yes, that night the ground had awoken in a violent fury of life and passion, rocking beneath them as though it were about to burst. Then there was stillness as they lay silently in each others' arms, their lungs breathing and their hearts beating in unison.

Afterwards, she had let out a sigh of contentment and looked over at her clothes that lay in a bundle on the ground next to her. A mischievous thought crossed her mind and she reached discreetly into one of the pockets, pulling out the container that held the extracts of woad, a plant that her people used to paint themselves for war. She deviously dipped her finger into the translucent blue substance and then executed her ambush, swiftly running her painted finger down the bridge of Tristan's nose leaving a bright blue stain. She giggled gleefully at the success of her attack, while Tristan rubbed his nose frantically trying to remove the dye.

"Ugh, this stuff smells!" he exclaimed in both surprise and disgust. Then, grasping at her arms to steal the paint away from her out of fear of a second attack, he demanded playfully, "Alright, you little mercenary, hand it over."

Jillian's stifled giggles erupted into laughter as she hid the dye behind her back, away from his reach. They struggled, rollicking as such for several minutes with Jillian rolling around trying to keep the container out of his grasp and Tristan snatching at her evasive movements. Finally, Tristan had her pinned on her stomach and removed the dye container from her hand as she wriggled beneath him in blithe protest.

"Okay! Okay! I surrender!" she cried between spurts of laughter.

"Not until I have my revenge," he replied, feigning a menacing tone. Jillian ceased her struggling beneath him as she suddenly felt his soft fingertips run along her bare shoulder blades, tracing an undistinguishable outline with the blue woad dye. The lightness of his touch made her hair stand up on end. She held her breath as his fingers slid along her smooth skin in waves and swirls.

When he had finally finished with his artwork, he whispered softly in her ear, "Now you have wings."

Jillian could still feel his hot breath on her cheek as she now sat cross-legged in her bed, staring blankly at the page she held in her hands. How she longed for that heat of his breath now. How she yearned for his voice, his touch. The memory of that night lingered in her mind for it was that night that together they had created a life that had all too soon been stolen away in the volatility caused by nature's fickleness. Now she could only sit and ruminate over the loss of the product of her and Tristan's love and, worse, lament the current absence of that love when she needed it the most. Why had she driven him away? Why had she demanded that he leave on that mission? She was a foolish woman full of regrets.

Jillian's self-castigation was cut short by Guinevere who at that moment burst through the door. Bors and Jillian looked up from their reading, wide-eyed and startled at Guinevere's sudden intrusion. The queen's face had turned white in a state of stupor, the source of which remained a mystery to the two who sat observing her shock.

Guinevere was quick in informing them of the unfolding events, however, as she announced in a voice that shook with dismay, "They're---they're invading. The Saxons---they're outside the wall---an entire army." It was at that moment that the three present in Jillian's room heard the ominous, yet all too familiar, beating of the Saxon drums that echoed through the fort as a formally voiced threat of what was to come. The drums thumped in a slow, daunting rhythm, but the hearts of Jillian, Guinevere, and Bors pounded rapidly, giving five beats for every one beat of the drums.

The crack of Jillian's voice interrupted the hostile percussion, "Do we have a plan?"

---------------

Arthur, Tarra, and the knights had landed on the shore of the northern France coastline and were currently making their way on horseback down a forest trail. "Alright, now, remember to keep the arrow level with your mouth," instructed Galahad who was teaching---or attempting to teach---Tarra the art of the unmatched Sarmatian bow.

"That should be a hard enough feat, seeing as her mouth never remains still for more than a mere second at most," muttered Tristan in amusement.

"Shut up, I'm trying to concentrate," replied Tarra, absorbed in her handling of the beautifully crafted bow. She did as Galahad ordered, keeping the arrow level with her mouth, and pulled back on the string. Unfortunately her horse chose at that very moment to rear and shake its head causing the arrow to slip from Tarra's fingers and whiz past Arthur's head, missing his ear only by a couple of centimeters.

Arthur whipped his head around and glared at them, his face hot with rage. "Galahad!" he roared, "Get that thing away from her before she kills somebody!" Galahad blushed in embarrassment as he retrieved the bow from Tarra who hung her head in disappointment at her failure.

"Don't worry," teased Gawain with a laugh, "If we really thought you could manage to kill something with that bow, we'd let you keep it."

"I still can't believe you've been trained in every form of weaponry except archery," commented Galahad in awe.

"It's simple, really. Carrying around bows and arrows is just not conducive to the stealthy maneuvers I've been required to perform in my line of work," explained Tarra, "They're too bulky."

"I've managed just fine," contended Tristan who was renowned for the furtiveness with which he navigated the land undetected.

"Yes, but you have only to stalk past trees that have no perception of your exposed weapons," Tarra refuted, "whereas in Rome the trees are not trees, but multitudes of citizens capable not only of perceiving such exhibited weaponry but also of drawing conclusions about your purposes and intentions for carrying those devices. No, you may find your bow to your advantage, but I only find use in weapons that I can conceal."

Her point was well taken, and Tristan said nothing more on the matter. Galahad, however, continued the conversation as he inquired, "Did you enjoy Rome? Arthur used to describe it as a magnificent place, though he'd never actually been there himself."

"I hated it," Tarra stated bluntly.

"Why?" Galahad asked with a light laugh at her candidness.

"Rome is a very crowded place," she explained, "There are way too many people---Roman people, for that matter---running around for my comfort."

"You said you lived the first ten years of your life with the gypsies. Why didn't you just stay with them then, if you don't mind my asking?" pursued Galahad.

"I was raised by the gypsies, but I was never one of them," Tarra answered thoughtfully, "I suppose I left because I wanted to find a place where I belonged. I certainly did not find that place in Rome over those many years, but I do think I was close to finding it in Arabia with the Sultan Arif during the past two years. That was the first time I ever experienced what it felt like to be part of a family---even if it was only a con and fabrication."

"Well, perhaps we can be your family now," suggested Galahad sincerely.

Tarra laughed. "Oh, Galahad, your sentimentality never ceases to disgust me," she teased. Then, noticing his blush, she added, "But it would be an honor."


	19. Chapter 19

Hey guys! I hope you had a great Halloween! etraya- thanks for your comments! I hope your essay goes well!

Here's the next chapter.

------------------------------------

"Do we have a plan?"

Jillian's words hovered in the air unanswered for what seemed an eternity before Guinevere's face hardened, her shoulders straightened, and she declared firmly, "We fight. Come."

Bors shot for the door after Guinevere as if sprung from a catapult, but halted suddenly turning back to Jillian. "You wait here," he ordered, pointing his finger authoritatively at her.

"Like hell I will!" she cried in protest, jumping out of her bed and following close at his heels. They chased after Guinevere through the halls that were filled with frightened people who darted in every direction in panic and hysteria. Those that recognized the two Britons and the knight watched them race through the halls with eyes hopeful for some kind of guidance or leadership, but Guinevere, Jillian, and Bors did not have time to stop to give them assurances. Instead they darted through the fort with only one purpose in mind and that was to get up to the parapet at the main wall where they could overlook the offensive assembling outside the fort and evaluate the threat.

They bounded up the steps and leaned over the edge of the wall, panting and gasping for air from the exertion of their sprint. An entire army, the size of which they had not seen since the battle at Badon Hill, was congregated at the edge of the forest, but it was not the usual army of homogenous warriors, but a conglomeration of Saxons and Britons.

"Britons?" Jillian uttered in disbelief. She knew that Arthur had not yet completely succeeded in uniting the country, but she never thought the day would come that her own people would join forces with the Saxons. Her blood boiled at the thought.

"The Itis tribe and the Udela tribe," observed Guinevere, her voice dripping with disdain, "The only two tribes left that have continued to resist the unification."

"The bloody maggots don't seem to have any trouble joining forces with the Saxons, though," spat Jillian in disgust.

"I'll call for the evacuation," Bors offered more as a definite course of action than as a suggestion.

"What! You can't be serious!" exclaimed Jillian in dismay.

"Over my dead body!" added Guinevere.

"And a dead body is exactly how you're going to end up if you don't get the hell out of here," Bors warned, his voice authoritative and severe.

"You coward!" Jillian shouted angrily. Any sweetness Bors had grown accustomed to in Jillian's manner had evaporated at the first sign of a threat of invasion. This was her land, her country, and she had been fighting all her life to see it free and under the protection of a leader like Arthur. She would die before surrendering it to anyone, least of all the Saxons and those two damned traitorous tribes.

"Hey!" Bors bellowed, insulted by her accusation of his cowardice, "I ain't scared of any measly little Saxon army, woad army, or any army you can find on this earth, but I ain't stupid either. We have no Arthur. We have no knights. We _barely _have a cavalry stationed here. We have a chance to save these people if we can get them evacuated. I'll go myself to fetch Arthur and be back with the rest of the knights to kick some Saxon ass before any real damage is done."

"No," said Guinevere resolutely, "We stay."

"Listen here---" Bors began to protest.

"No you listen to me," Guinevere interrupted, raising her voice in a firm, commanding manner, "I am the queen of Briton and with Arthur gone, that puts me in charge, so you will just have to shut up and listen. You're right. We do not have Arthur or the knights, but we have you and we have me and we have Jillian. But most importantly, we have this wall, and it is our greatest defense. Let those unwilling to fight evacuate immediately and if that includes you, then so be it. Jillian, myself, and anyone else willing to fight for our country will stay and defend this wall right down to the last man. I will not surrender this fort so long as there is British blood running through my veins."

"Nor I," declared Jillian, her voice stirring with vehemence.

Bors stood still for a moment, staring at the two women who stood defiantly before him. He evaluated their composures for any sign of weakness, but found none. Their mouths were flat and even; their eyes were steady and unwavering. "You women are bloody crazy! You're going to get yourselves killed!" he exclaimed finally, throwing his hands up in defeat, "But goddess knows I'll never turn my back on a fight. I'm with you. What's your plan?"

Guinevere threw herself into action, marching imperiously along the wall with Jillian and Bors following her steps. "Our goal is to hold out and keep them off the wall for as long as possible," Guinevere commanded, "We'll need oil and fire. And we'll need a line of archers all along the parapets. Jillian---"

"I'll fetch my bow," replied Jillian in anticipation of the order and darted off to the armory with a quick nod of her head to Guinevere. In any other situation, Jillian probably should have felt debilitated from her weakened state, but the adrenaline coursed through her body so that she felt as though she could take on the entire army herself. She hastened to the armory where she retrieved her bow and tested the string with the confidence of familiarity. She felt the fire surge through her veins in the anticipation of battle. '_Let them come_,' she thought, '_Let them come_.'

----------------------

At the end of a long day of hard riding, the knights made camp in a small clearing just off the trail. For the most part, the forest of France differed little from the forests of Briton, but the knowledge that they were strangers in an unknown country made the knights weary of their surroundings. While the rest of the knights scrutinized their vicinity with untrusting eyes, Tarra, accustomed to feeling out of place no matter where she went, hummed lightheartedly as she unloaded her camping supplies from her horse.

Lancelot trailed her with his eyes and found himself revisiting the same thought that had taken up permanent residence in his mind since the start of the journey. Had he misjudged her? All the other knights (even Tristan for goddess' sake!) had seemed to have forgiven her for her plot against Arthur and had practically even accepted her as part of the clan. In particular, Galahad had taken an earnest liking to her and Lancelot could not help but note the tinge of envy he felt at the supposition that the feeling was mutual. Lancelot noticed Galahad retrieving his baggage from his horse and approached the young knight with exaggerated casualty.

Galahad had his back to Lancelot, so Lancelot cleared his throat hoping to catch the knight's attention. When this act was ignored, however, Lancelot finally spoke, his voice low as though speaking in confidentiality. "Galahad?"

"Yes?" replied Galahad with a shade of defensiveness in his tone.

It was at this point that Lancelot realized he wasn't sure exactly what he wanted to say to his friend, so he improvised, "Well I---I just still feel badly about what happened between myself and---"

"You have already apologized once," said Galahad dismissively.

"Yes, but I feel that I must do so again. Please, I could not bear it if our friendship was compromised because of a terribly stupid mistake that I swear shall never be repeated," Lancelot pleaded humbly.

Though Galahad's face did not soften from Lancelot's sincerity, he appeared to be considering what Lancelot had said. The two knights had been friends since they had arrived in Briton from Sarmatia, which was practically as far back as they could remember, and that was a bond that could not be broken so easily. "I will accept your apology," said Galahad stolidly, "But only because that makes me the better man."

Lancelot smiled faintly at Galahad's backhanded forgiveness. "Thank you," he replied with a dash of undetectable sarcasm; then added with more sincerity, "It was truly never my intention to cause you any pain."

"It's okay. I'm over it," insisted Galahad, "Really."

"You and Tarra seem to have gotten rather close…" Lancelot observed, trying to sound as nonchalant as possible.

"Yes, we have," replied Galahad with a knowing smile, "What is it to you?"

"Oh, it's nothing to me at all, I assure you," Lancelot protested a little too eagerly, "Is there anything between you two? Do you---have feelings for her?"

Galahad laughed out loud. He had seen that question coming a mile away. "Well, if you must know: yes. She is beautiful, intelligent---perhaps a little screwy in the head---but unique and intriguing. How could I not be attracted to her?"

"Oh," was all Lancelot could manage to say as he felt a thickness rising in his throat. He let his eyes fall to the ground, trying not to let the disappointment show on his face. He really needed to pull himself together. It was not like him to feel this way about a woman, especially in the singular sense of the word.

Galahad, however, all too readily perceived the effect his words had had. "But regardless of those feelings I have for her, I will never act on them or even entertain the idea that they could ever be returned," he said somewhat reluctantly because he knew those were the words Lancelot wanted to hear.

"What?" stammered Lancelot, his head shooting up in hopeful surprise despite himself.

"I've already lost one woman to you," explained Galahad bitterly, "I'm not stupid enough to let it happen again. Tarra fancies _you_. Anyone can see that, you dolt, and even more obvious is the fact that the feeling is mutual. If you would just get over yourself, stop acting so stubborn, and make amends with her, you would save the both of you a lot of misery."

Lancelot found himself bursting out in uproarious, involuntary laughter. He felt a strange amusement at his own blindness and relief at his sudden regaining of sight. "I have been rather foolish," he admitted more to himself than to Galahad.

Galahad responded anyway with the forewarning, "Yes. You have. And I warn you---don't hurt her again. Because I _will _be there to pick up the pieces. And as we determined earlier, I _am _the better man."

"Yes," Lancelot replied seriously in agreement, "I daresay you are."

----------------------

Tarra's horse reared obstinately as she tried to loop its reigns around a nearby tree. "Stubborn mule!" she cried in frustration. Just then, a pair of able hands grabbed the reigns, soothing the agitated animal till it was finally stifled. The competent hands belonged to Lancelot who quipped, "It's a horse actually---not a mule."

"Really? Is that so? Thank you for enlightening me," Tarra muttered sarcastically.

"Glad to be of service," he replied cheerfully.

"Perhaps you could clarify your own breed as well," she suggested derisively, "Because all this time, I've taken you for an ass." With that she picked up her feet and quitted Lancelot's company with her head held high in triumph. Lancelot, however, was not so easily put off and followed closely at her heels.

"Can't we put all this animosity behind us?" Lancelot called, practically breaking out into a run, trying to keep up with her quickened pace.

"Well that is up to you," she answered without stopping, "Since there are certainly no sentiments of animosity from _me_."

"I'm glad," said Lancelot in a genuine tone, "Nor do I feel any malice towards you either. I was perhaps too harsh with you previously and I regret that, but you must understand that Arthur is my best friend, so---"

"Forget it," said Tarra dismissively, "If anyone should be apologizing it's me---for my plots and scheming and what have you---really, I've lost track of it all. And I would apologize---if only I felt guilty about it."

Lancelot swallowed back the offense at how lightly she spoke of her plan to kill his brother in arms and fought the urge to rebuke her for her lack of remorse. But then he reminded himself that he had decided to forget his grudge against her. After all, she ultimately hadn't actually _done _anything. "Well," he said, deciding it was best to change the subject, "There was also the incident of you finding me in bed with---"

"Look, Lancelot," Tarra interjected before he could finish, "I don't know why you feel suddenly obligated to explain all this to me, since it's really none of my business. But your insistence on voicing these vindications vexes me and I'm terribly irritated by vexation. Allow me to speak plainly then in saying that who you sleep with is no concern of _mine, _so please, cease with the superfluous explanations. They're giving me a dreadful headache."

"Of course, of course," cooed Lancelot haughtily, "I apologize. I should have foreseen the topic would distress you given your rapacity for my affections. I should have known better than to afflict you with the reminder of the ever wanton competition for my attention, but let me assure you, that girl meant nothing to me. I regret the entire affair, short-lived as it was."

"Do not project your infatuations on me!" seethed Tarra, livid at his insinuation of her jealousy, "Your vying for _my _attentions has always been as blatantly obvious as an arrow through the skull, but let me assure _you_ that you do not, will not, and have not meant anything to me. And that's definitely a fact I do not regret."

With that, Tarra stormed off in exasperation as Lancelot followed her this time only with his eyes that gleamed with self-satisfaction. He then sauntered over to Galahad with a bemused smile on his face.

"Well?" Galahad asked.

"Oh you were quite right," Lancelot said smugly, "She fancies me _very _much."

----------------------------------

Tarra made her way over to where the knights were gathered around the campfire and took a seat next to Galahad who subsequently tossed a victorious glance over at Lancelot. She may fancy Lancelot, but she had chosen to sit at Galahad's side, and Galahad did not hesitate to show his satisfaction.

"So what's tonight's topic of discussion?" she whispered to her companion, not wanting to interrupt the conversation at hand.

"We're describing our ideal death," Galahad replied softly out the side of his mouth.

"How uplifting," Tarra muttered sarcastically.

"For as long as I can remember, I've known that I will die in battle. It's only a question of when and where," said Arthur gloomily, "I can only hope that the answer to the 'why' will be for a good cause."

"There is no greater honor than to die in battle," added Tristan soberly.

"I used to think that I would die in battle," Lancelot mused plaintively, "But now I have my doubts. I've come close so many times, but fate has always intervened. So I've begun to wonder if perhaps my destiny has parted from what it once was."

"I hope to die of old age," submitted Gawain, "peacefully in my sleep."

"I only hope that it be quick and painless," said Galahad.

"When I die, I want it to be as excruciatingly painful as possible," Tarra interjected boldly in disagreement, her words earning her shocked expressions from her listeners.

"You are braver than I, then," revered Galahad, not sure whether to take her seriously or not.

"On the contrary, I am the worst of cowards," Tarra objected, her eyes ablaze with intensity, "and like any coward, I love my own life too much and am far too afraid of losing it. I admit there is nothing more terrifying to me than death. But since it is inevitable, when the end comes I want to experience with it so much suffering, so much misery, so much pain and torture, that death will no longer be a fear---but a relief."

"Tarra that has got to be the stupidest thing I've ever heard," Lancelot blurted out impulsively.

"No one should fear death who has lived a good life," rang in Arthur's voice of idealism.

"Aye, but unfortunately that isn't very comforting in my case," Tarra countered with a sly smile.

"Well maybe you should change that," suggested Arthur somewhat condescendingly.

"Yes. Perhaps I should," Tarra said thoughtfully, "But not tonight. I'm tired."

"We should all get some rest," Arthur advised, "Tomorrow is a very important day."

And he was right. Tomorrow they would reach the estate where they would find Lucia Gaius. Tarra reviewed the plan she and Arthur had devised over and over in her head so as not to forget a single detail. She lay her head back and closed her eyes. Yes, tomorrow would be a very, very important day.


	20. Chapter 20

Lucia Gaius sat slumped in her seat, twirling a lock of her ebony hair in idle boredom. The droll voices of Flavius Adeodatus, Senator Brutus Camillus, Senator Publius Sergius, Tiberius Marinus and Senator Otho Quintus resounded incessantly in her ear, lulling her into a state of inertia. Lucia and the five Roman politicians had taken respite in the great hall of Senator Camillus' French estate where they frittered away their time reclined on ornate cushions, dipping their chalices into the communal wine bowl.

Of the five Roman men, Flavius Adeodatus and Tiberius Marinus were aspiring politicians and the youngest by at least ten years separation from the other three senators who were well into the autumn of their fruitless existences. Senator Camillus was the eldest and self-appointed leader of the coterie of conspirators. He held a rigid frame and a face appearing to be carved of stone so that he resembled a living, breathing Roman effigy. His eyebrows sloped down towards the bridge of his nose, freezing his face in constant consternation.

Lucia let out a fatigued sigh, leaning lazily back in her seat and taking a sip of her wine. Her icy blue eyes caught sight of a hawk perched high up on a window sill and she observed it curiously, unable to shake the feeling that it should remind her of something. The sudden entrance of a messenger into the great hall, however, broke her trance and she opened her ears to what he had to say.

After a gesture of acknowledgement from Senator Camillus, the messenger announced, "The cargo of weaponry has been successfully transported to Briton. The Saxons and the exiguous faction of British natives have begun their attack at Hadrian's Wall. At this time, they are being met only by a small force stationed at the wall."

"They attack so soon?" responded Tiberius Marinus with a critical eye, "What news of Artorius Castus? Is he dead yet?"

"I-I have no news of the British king," stammered the messenger, glancing nervously at Senator Camillus who waved him off with another gesture of the hand. The messenger nodded gratefully and scurried out of the hall.

"If Arthur still lives, this may not bode well…" commented Senator Sergius warily.

"Lady Gaius," Senator Camillus said, addressing Lucia in a cold manner, "I suppose you still have not received word from that spy of yours, Barak Mahal, either."

Lucia yawned indifferently and answered, "I anticipate his return any day now. You needn't worry about him. He salivates for gold like a dog for meat and I assure you, I have sufficiently whetted his appetite."

"He's been gone far too long, though, you must admit" broke in Senator Quintus, "and it's beginning to wreck my nerves."

"Your nerves were already wrecked by that opium we imported from the Orient," quipped Flavius Adeodatus with a snicker.

"And what of the assassin you hired, Lady Gaius?" pursued Senator Camillus coolly, "She should have had the job done by now."

"I'm telling you the whole thing makes me nervous," interjected Senator Quintus once again, "I've known something was amiss on that island ever since the assassin I hired from Nassir Hamalo disappeared---and while on the same mission as Lady Gaius's assassin, I might add."

"Barak Mahal has every confidence in his apprentice, which is why I hired her," said Lucia, growing bored with the conversation, "And if she does not fulfill her duty, Barak Mahal will see to killing Arthur and the scout himself."

"_And_ the scout?" piped up Tiberius Marinus, "Was that part of the plan?"

"Personal vendetta," Lucia muttered with a wry smile, "Let's just say he was less than obliging in certain affairs of the past. And I do not forgive insubordination so easily."

"Well, as long as the additional cost for it is coming out of your own holdings…" said Tiberius.

"I'd hate to find myself on _your _bad side, Lady Gaius," commented Senator Sergius, twirling the end of his beard between his fingers in amusement.

"The whole situation makes me nervous," echoed Senator Quintus.

"For heaven's sake, man," rebuked Senator Sergius, "If I had known you were such a gutless coward, I never would have let you in on this plot in the first place."

"Still," interjected Flavius Adeodatus for the first time, "If Arthur Castus has not yet been eliminated, the invasion could very well prove to be futile."

"And all the money we spent on that weaponry would go to naught…" added a distressed Tiberius.

"I'm beginning to wonder if the reclaiming of Briton is really worth the toll it's taking on my nerves," moaned Senator Quintus.

"Damn you! Will you stifle yourself, you dastardly wretch," roared Senator Camillus, fed up with Senator Quintus' complaints, "We have no reason to believe everything isn't going according to plan. We have made our pact with the remaining Saxons and revolutionary natives. We have kept our part of the bargain by sending the necessary arms. Now, we must simply wait to hear confirmation from Barak Mahal and Lady Gaius's assassin of Arthur Castus' death."

"And that's the part that's making me nervous," said Senator Quintus, fidgeting with his robes. Senator Camillus shot him a disapproving glare, causing him to avert his eyes to the floor in shame. "Well I'm just saying…" he added in justification, "We should have heard from them by now."

"You are all very dull company," commented Lucia haughtily with an exasperated sigh, "I have been terribly starved for amusement since my arrival."

"My deepest apologies, my lady," said Senator Sergius charmingly, "But what do you expect? We are old men now. Our days of being able to amuse young ladies such as yourself are well behind us."

Lucia was only half listening as she once again had her eyes fixed upon the hawk that still sat perched on the window sill, but she managed to answer, "Dear Senator Sergius, you know I've always found you to be the most valuable of company."

"Yes, and how well I seem to hold your attention with my company," mused Senator Sergius at her distraction, "What is it you look upon, child?"

Lucia laughed politely and shook her head as if dismissing her thoughts. "Oh nothing," she replied lightly, "Just a silly bird in the window that appears to be eavesdropping on our conversation."

"Well," said Senator Sergius in jest, "Let us hope the little spy does not betray us and our schemes."

The main door to the great hall suddenly swung wide open and Tarra strode confidently through the entryway, one corner of her mouth curling up in a sly smile. The guards that lined the perimeter of the hall awaiting orders fixed their eyes on the suspicious looking woman who entered the hall unannounced. Tarra marched down the aisle with an unhesitating bounce and a confident swagger in her step towards where Lucia Gaius and the five politicians sat looking at her with placid eyes. In her hand, she carried a blood-soaked sack, round like a ripened melon.

Tarra, poised and assured, approached the idling Romans and, not waiting to be addressed, said sarcastically, "I hope I did not keep you waiting. I can see you clearly have much more important business to occupy you."

"Senators, noblemen," said Lucia rising ceremoniously from her seat, "This is the assassin I hired to kill Arthur named---I do believe I've forgotten your name, actually."

"That's alright," answered Tarra with mock sweetness, "You can't help that you were born Roman and stupid." Lucia scowled at Tarra with a menacing glare.

"Be careful who you insult, heathen," warned Senator Camillus disdainfully, "Or you will find your own death imminent."

"Ah, yes, but who would secure it? Let's face it, you Romans are not exactly known for handling such affairs yourselves. First you would have to find and hire yet another assassin to kill me and what a chore that would be! It's a pity you couldn't just pay your current assassin to do the job for you. Honestly, what has the world come to when a loyal servant can't be bribed with a high enough price to assassinate herself?" countered Tarra with great amusement, "Oh, but what the hell? I'm willing to hear any offers you might be inclined to make."

"Honestly, Lady Gaius, where do you pick up this trash?" spat Senator Camillus indignantly.

Lucia grimaced vehemently at Tarra. "Well, now," she said impatiently, "Do you have the heads or not?"

Tarra grinned audaciously and lifted the rounded sack she held in her hand so that it was at eye level between them. "I have here the head of Arthur Castus," she declared, "And the head of the scout is on its way."

Lucia examined the sack from where she stood and seemed pleased. She extended her hand to retrieve it, but Tarra withdrew it quickly from her reach. "Money first," Tarra demanded. Lucia frowned and called over to a guard to go and retrieve Tarra's reward.

Tarra watched the guard exit the hall and then said, "While we're on the topic of money, I have a question I've been dying to ask you."

"Yes?" Lucia replied disinterestedly, "And what is that?"

"You paid both Barak Mahal and myself to carry out the same assassination, did you not? Why?" asked Tarra, "Honestly, my feelings are a little hurt that you didn't have enough confidence that I'd get the job done myself."

A sly smile crept up Lucia's face. "Barak Mahal _was _right about you," she said, "You are very astute."

"I'm always glad to be thought highly of," replied Tarra less than enthusiastically, "If only your opinion mattered. Now, what does my astuteness have to do with you paying twice for the same assassination?"

"Absolutely nothing seeing as your intelligence was never in question as a hindrance to your getting the job done," said Lucia simply, "My concern lay rather with your loyalty. You have made it clear that you have no respect for me and worse is that you do not fear me, either. What control could I have over you? I needed a guarantee that you would not go back on your end of the bargain. I was willing to pay you six hundred gold coins for the assassination, but Barak Mahal suggested that three hundred of those be offered to you under the guise of a second employer. He said you would be more likely complete the assignment if the orders also came from him."

"Sounds complicated," commented Tarra, "You must really have wanted this Arthur fellow dead to strain your feeble mind so."

"I'm used to getting what I want," Lucia explained, lifting her head imperiously and ignoring Tarra's jibe.

"Really?" muttered Tarra, "Because it seems like you are a rather unsatisfied kind of person."

"I have many wants," Lucia replied as though her greed were a reasonable justification for ordering another person's murder.

"Have you ever heard of the treasure of Bostra?" Tarra asked suddenly, "It was accumulated by the Sultan Arif of Bostra, now known as the Sultan Arif of Petra. Some say that it was the acquisition of that treasure that dragged him down into the senility of his old age. They say it drove him mad. I wouldn't know because I did not meet him until years later, but they say that with every piece of treasure he added to his fortune, the more dissatisfied and restless he became. Eventually, at the realization that in his pursuit for riches he had forgotten produce sons to inherit his wealth, his eyes fogged over and so was born the senile Sultan Arif, the old fool---the only Sultan Arif that I knew."

Tarra turned her head then as the door opened and the guard returned with a jingling bag of gold coins. Tarra opened the bag and quickly glanced over the coins, estimating them to be of the correct value. She then shoved them into her pocket and turned her attention back to Lucia. "I am satisfied," she said simply.

Lucia had her eyes fixed on the blood-stained sack that Tarra still held in her hand. "Oh right," said Tarra as though she had forgotten about the bounty and raised it up once again. "You know," she said mischievously, looking Lucia directly in the eyes, "You were right not to trust my loyalty."

"What do you mean…?" asked Lucia, narrowing her eyes at Tarra suspiciously.

Tarra opened the sack, letting the head drop to the floor and roll across to Lucia's feet. The piercing green, wide-open eyes of Barak Mahal stared up at Lucia who covered her face with her hands and let out a blood-curdling shriek. Tarra threw her head back and laughed.

At that moment, Arthur and his knights barged through the main door with swords drawn, their faces fierce with the anticipation of the confrontation they had been waiting for. Lucia's eyes widened in fear and the five politicians rose from their seats behind her in alarm as Arthur and the knights charged through the hall towards them. Lucia glanced back up at the window sill to see the hawk sweep down from its perch, landing on its master's arm. The bird had betrayed her after all.

-------------------

I hope all that makes sense! If not, let me know and I can do some clarifying in the next chapter. :)


	21. Chapter 21

Realizing the imminent threat these newcomers posed, Senator Camillus' guards came at Tarra and the knights with brandished swords. One guard reached his grubby hand out to seize Tarra's arm, but Galahad had a dagger at his throat before he could advance another inch. "Don't touch her," Galahad ordered with a threatening glare. The knights did not seem intimidated in the least by the amateur soldiers who eyed them wearily, hesitant to attack. Lucia saved the guards' having to take action, however, by waving them off until she would call for them again.

"Arthur Castus," she greeted spitefully, holding her head high and aloof in an attempt not to appear shaken.

"Lucia Gaius," Arthur returned, smiling audaciously and showing himself to clearly be the more confident of the two. "Sorry to barge in unannounced," he added with a light insincerity.

"And do I not get a hello?" greeted Lancelot with a feigned salacious grin.

Lucia stifled a smile. "Ah, Lancelot," she said, running her eyes down his body, "My favorite mistake."

Lancelot's grin broadened. "I'm everyone's favorite," he bragged, "Unfortunately I cannot repay the compliment. To be perfectly honest, you're rubbish in bed, dear." Lucia scowled at him, but Lancelot simply dismissed her with a laugh.

"By the gods, Lancelot, is there any woman alive you _haven't _slept with?" spat Tarra in disgust.

"Well, _you_, actually," Lancelot replied coyly, though mentally he was kicking himself. He certainly would not win Tarra by waving his past affairs in her face. He then added smoothly, "But I've always been one to save the best for last."

"You try anything perverse and I _guarantee_ it will be your last," warned Tarra, twirling her dagger between her fingers as a kind of hint. She had caught the apologetic look Lancelot had tossed her, but that didn't mean she couldn't have her fun.

"And what is that supposed to mean?" asked Lancelot, not getting the message.

Galahad rolled his eyes at his numskulled friend and said, "She means she's going to cut off your---"

"Ahem!" interrupted Arthur, clearing his throat, "Let's get back to the point, shall we?"

Everyone turned their attention back to Lucia and Arthur except for Lancelot who had to have the last word. "Well she'll need more than that flimsy dagger to cut through my tree trunk of manhood," he countered proudly, adjusting his belt.

"Yeah. Right. Bamboo tree, maybe," Tarra muttered.

----------------------

As these antics took place, Senator Camillus leaped at the chance to slink out of the room while the others were distracted. His fatal mistake, however, was that there was one among them who was never actually fully distracted from his surroundings. Tristan's eye caught Senator Camillus' escape, and he quickly trailed after the senator through the winding halls of the estate.

Senator Camillus skulked through the shadows, taking precautions despite his imprudent belief that he had successfully evaded his newly arrived enemies. Nevertheless, his extrication involved bumbling clumsily down the hall as he tried to move his substantial weight lightly across the floor. Tristan glided elusively behind him, keeping his tall figure well hidden. The scout stalked the senator around a final corner at which point Senator Camillus ducked into a room that, by the desks and shelves, appeared to be his study. He staggered over to his desk and began shuffling through his papers. He would evacuate the estate immediately to safety, but not without his effects. The door to the study gave a sudden creak as it turned on its hinges. Camillus spun around at the sound to see Tristan enter, closing the door behind him and turning the latch.

The papers dropped from Camillus' trembling hands as his eyes dilated with fear. Tristan leaned casually against the door, running his hand along the curved blade of his sword as a nonverbal threat for Camillus to see.

"Leaving so soon?" Tristan asked in an emotionless tone as he studied his blade.

"Wh-What are you doing here?" stammered Camillus, "Are you---Are you going to kill me now?"

"Give me one good reason why I shouldn't," challenged the scout indifferently.

"I-I'm a politician---a senator. I'm very important to Rome," he pleaded, "If it's money you want, I assure you my ransom would be more than generous. Just---keep me alive."

"Do I look like a man who is driven by money?" Tristan asked in a voice that was frighteningly calm when compared to the tormented politician that stood unnerved before him.

"Everyone has a price…" the senator replied, trying to mask his terror with a rueful smile.

"Sit down," Tristan ordered, pointing with his sword to the chair behind the desk. Camillus hesitated at first, but the dangerous face of the knight in front of him persuaded Camillus that he was in no place to make objections. He therefore did as he was told, anxiously placing his trembling body into the chair.

Tristan advanced over towards him, leaning against the edge of the desk. Once Camillus was seated, Tristan said casually, as if in usual conversation, "To answer your question, I _am _going to kill you, but first---I want to know if you are afraid---and I want to see it." As he spoke these words, Tristan studied the face of senator, taking pleasure in every wrinkle of tension.

"I said I will pay you whatever you want!" protested Camillus in desperation.

The muscles of the scout's face contracted. He slashed the tip of his sword across Camillus' face, drawing a crimson shade of blood that trickled down his cheek. Tristan then leaned over so that barely an inch separated his face from Camillus'. He locked eyes with the senator and repeated in a minacious whisper, "_Do I look like a man who is driven by money?_"

Camillus' trembling lips parted to release a nervous laugh. Tristan did not look like a man who could be driven by anything except by his own whim, which was all the more terrifying. "I can give you whatever else you want, then," Camillus offered hopelessly, "Anything at all. Just name it."

"You have nothing that I could possibly want. But I will take from you what _you_ value most, instead," said Tristan with a shadow of a grin.

"Yes! And surely you can see that I am a greedy man. I do not pretend to share your apathy for money and I admit I am driven purely by it," he said, "Therefore take my money. It is what I value most."

Tristan swiped his sword again across Camillus' other cheek, this time not only drawing blood from the senator, but tears as well. "As a politician, you should be able to formulate more convincing lies," Tristan said, calmly wiping the blood from his blade. He then added in amusement, "But I see that, as a Christian, you've learned to turn the other cheek."

"It is not a lie! I swear it!" the senator cried.

"Why should I take your money when you have such an ample amount of wealth to lose?" asked Tristan, "But you only have _one_ life and it is _that _pathetic piece of property that you value most."

"Please! I beg you! Have mercy!" Camillus wailed, his eyes swollen with tears.

With a face as hard as stone, Tristan stared firmly into Senator Camillus' bloodshot eyes. "I will show you the same mercy you would have shown Arthur, my commander," the scout said with finality and in one, graceful swoop of Tristan's sword, the head of Senator Camillus fell to the floor.

---------------------

"Now then," said Arthur, turning his attention back to Lucia, "It would appear you want me assassinated."

"I really hope he didn't just figure that out," Tarra mumbled to no one in particular.

"It would also appear that I hired a traitorous assassin," Lucia remarked contemptuously.

"Everyone is a traitor from their enemy's point of view," Tarra contended with a shrug of her shoulders. "As for me, I ally myself with those from whom I can reap the most benefits, and in this case it paid to play both sides. I managed to collect a reward for a duty I did not even perform," she added boastfully, jingling the coins in her pocket.

A sly smile crept up the corner of Lucia's mouth. "As fate would have it, your bringing Arthur here will prove just as effective as your having performed that duty after all," she said, not trying to hide her satisfaction.

"Is that so?" asked Arthur, raising a suspicious eyebrow.

"It is indeed," said Lucia, turning back to Tarra, "You asked me if I had heard of the Sultan of Bostra, now known as the Sultan of Petra, and, in answer to that question, yes. I have heard of him, but more importantly I know how it is that he became the Sultan of Petra."

"Oh sh--" sprang an obsenity from Tarra's mouth, realizing what was to come.

Lucia laughed. "Yes, it's a story I've always admired," she said triumphantly, "The Sultan Arif of Bostra acquired Petra after baiting the Sultan of Petra out from behind his walls, didn't he? And while the Sultan of Petra attacked the deserted Bostra, the Sultan of Bostra easily took control of the before unconquerable city of Petra. It's never safe for a king to be away from home, is it? You see, Arthur, at this very moment an army of Saxons and two revolutionary woad tribes are attacking the main fort at Hadrian's Wall. I suspect it will not be long before they have gained control of the fort and from there they will continue their invasion of the entire country. Of course, they could not accomplish such an endeavor without the backing of myself and other equally ambitious politicians. We shall live to see Briton returned to Roman hands yet, I think."

Arthur's face turned red with rage. "And I say you will not live to see tomorrow's sun rise!" he threatened, his eyes flaring up with fury.

Lucia did not wait to see if he intended to make good on his word. She dashed over to an oil lamp that sat on a nearby table and smashed it against the wall where a large tapestry hung, depicting the Great Flood and Noah's ark. "Guards!" she screamed as the fabric went up in flames. The guards, who had been waiting in anticipation for these orders, charged at the knights as Lucia and the other four politicians fled the room.

The fire spread quickly through the main hall as Gawain, Galahad, and Tarra fought off the charging guards. Arthur, anticipating the fire's spreading further throughout the estate, called over to them, "Get as many of the servants and other innocent people out as you can!" After giving these orders, he and Lancelot bounded off in pursuit of Lucia and her fellow conspirators.

Gawain and Galahad easily hacked their way through the gang of novice warriors. "Hey! Stop hogging all the kills!" Tarra called, throwing her dagger into the back of one of the guards, "Share the fun, will you?" A few more swings and stabs left the entire group of guards lying lifelessly on the floor. "Well that was anti-climatic," commented Tarra in disappointment at the ease of their victory.

"Come on, let's get out of here," said Galahad. The fire was quickly sweeping throughout the main hall and into the corridors. The three of them quickly exited the main hall where they met with Tristan who they had not even realized had disappeared until that moment.

"Where the hell have you been?" asked a puzzled Gawain.

"Taking care of some business," Tristan answered simply.

"The fire's spreading quickly," observed Galahad, "Arthur told us to get as many people out as possible."

"This way," said Tristan, who the others always trusted for his sense of direction. He pointed down the corridor and began to lead the way with Galahad and Gawain following closely at his heels.

"You guys just go ahead with all that heroic nonsense!" Tarra called after them, shooing them away, "I'm going to go find Arthur and Lancelot. No way am I letting them have the pleasure of killing these Roman scumbags all to themselves!"

With that, Tarra headed off down the corridor in the opposite direction. The hallway was quickly filling up with smoke so that Tarra had to cover her mouth with her hand in order to breathe. She squinted to see through the cloud in front of her and coughed painfully as the smoke filled her lungs. She turned back warily in the direction from which she had come, but the knights were long gone.

Tarra could feel the floor boards flex and the wood creak beneath her feet as she made her way through the corridor. Her hearing was the first of her senses to become aware of what happened next. She took a step forward and heard an ear-splitting **_CRASH!_** The next of her senses to awaken was her sense of touch as her body slammed to the ground beneath the collapsed floor boards. She rolled over dazedly, still not sure of what had happened. When she had ascertained that none of her bones were broken, she gingerly rose to her feet.

Looking up through the hole in the floor through which she had plunged, Tarra realized that she had fallen far enough down to the point that the fractured floor boards above her were just out of her reach. She could see the smoke thickening above her and could feel the heat of the fire growing closer. '_So this is how I die_,' she found herself thinking as she evaluated the situation. "Like hell!" she cried aloud in protest to her own thoughts.

Tarra quickly began scanning her surroundings for any way out, but there was only the dirt ground, the dirt walls, and the floor boards above her that lay out of her reach. When she was finally convinced that no other means of escape would present themselves, she resigned herself to the only course of action she had left. "HEEEEELP!" she screamed at the top of her lungs, projecting her voice as far as it would carry, "Is anyone out there? Hello? Please! Somebody help!" She shouted louder and louder, but the only answer she received was the crackling roar of the fire above.


	22. Chapter 22

Lucia and the other four remaining Roman politicians raced through the blazing estate, periodically looking over their shoulders only to have their fears confirmed that Arthur and Lancelot were still following closely at their heels. Lucia's heart pounded in beat with her footsteps that clapped against the wooden floor. She cursed her bulky, Roman-styled robes that restrained her legs from striding at a length that would allow her a quicker pace. When she had finished cursing her robes, she took to cursing that damn assassin for betraying her. Why wasn't money enough to ensure loyalty? Why couldn't she buy control over the future? Why was destiny not for sale? Why wasn't money enough? Why could people like Arthur, who only offered something as impalpable as freedom, win the allegiance of nations? Why?

Lucia Gaius asked herself these questions all too late in her meaningless life for now she was hastening through an estate set on fire, an effort that could only delay her fate, not reverse it. Lucia and her four accomplishes dashed frantically down the hall, but the corridor was quickly coming to an end. There was nowhere else to turn. A door to one of the quarters had been left ajar and the five Roman conspirators threw themselves into what they hoped would serve as a safe haven.

The end of Lucia's foot caught on the hem of her robe causing her to stumble through the entryway and onto the floor of the room. Tiberius Marinus charged for the door to secure it behind them, but Arthur threw his body against the door, preventing Tiberius from closing it. Lancelot helped his commander to force the door open and with their combined strength, the two warriors succeeded in besieging the room that was serving as an improvised asylum for the five Romans.

Lucia looked up in terror at the two men who towered above her. She willed her body to get up from the floor, but she found herself paralyzed in fear. In a foolhardy move, Tiberius pulled a dagger out from inside his robes and flew at Lancelot. Unfazed by the sudden attack, Lancelot grabbed Tiberius by the wrist and twisted the politician's arm behind his back, causing him to release the dagger as the pain shot up from his wrist to his shoulder. Tiberius let out a guttural cry as he clenched his jaw in agony. Lancelot spun him around to face Arthur.

"Would you like to do the honors?" Lancelot offered his friend.

"No, you go right ahead," replied Arthur obligingly.

Lancelot nodded his thanks and ran his sword through Tiberius, penetrating into his back and out his stomach. Lucia shrieked and quickly scrambled to her feet as the corpse of her friend fell to the ground beside her, his blood seeping onto the floor.

Senator Quintus paced about in the corner of the room, mumbling to himself, "Oh, this is not good. Not good. Oh! My nerves! I can't take it!"

"Will you shut up, you old fool?" snarled Senator Sergius bitterly.

Senator Quintus stared at Senator Sergius with a crazed look in his eyes. "I-I can't t-take it," he stuttered, "Th-they're going to kill us. I-I want it to be over. I want it to be _over!_" As Senator Quintus spoke these words, he staggered in a blind madness over to where Tiberius's dagger lay on the floor. He picked up the knife with his trembling hands and plunged it into his own heart.

"God in heaven!" gasped Flavius Adeodatus at his comrade's suicide.

"Well, at least he finally managed to put himself out of his misery," Senator Sergius remarked harshly.

"And you'll be joining him soon enough," said Lancelot, staring menacingly at the cold-hearted senator.

Lucia's eyes were opened wide with fear. She ran over to Lancelot, grasping at his shoulders and looking up at him with her round, mooning blue eyes. "You don't have to do this!" she cried desperately, "Please! I cannot believe you no longer hold affections for me. If I ever meant anything to you---anything at all! Don't do this! I beg you!"

Lancelot looked down at her impassively. "You meant _nothing_ to me," he said dryly, "No woman ever has." He paused thoughtfully for a moment in consideration and then added almost to his own suprised, "Except for one."

Arthur shot a startled look at Lancelot as he spoke these words. Lancelot returned the glance with a slight nod of confirmation that what he had said was true---and that the "who" he spoke of should be no great mystery.

Lucia backed slowly away from Lancelot, her face empty and defeated. She then turned her attention to Arthur, hoping to garner any sympathy she could from the stony faced commander. She gave him an apologetic, half-smile. "Can't we put all this behind us?" she asked, trying unsuccessfully to keep her voice light and unconcerned, "I mean, you're still alive, so there's really no harm done, right?"

"You think I give a damn about my life when the freedom of my country is in jeopardy?" Arthur roared, his hate erupting like a volcano. Arthur was generally a patient man, but not when it came to his people's freedom.

The room felt hot and stuffy, but not only because of the heated conflict. Lancelot's eye caught the smoke seeping through the crack at the bottom of the door. "Arthur…" he said anxiously, hoping to draw his friend's attention to the fact that they were running out of time. Arthur recognized the urgency in Lancelot's tone, but kept his rage-filled eyes fixed on Lucia.

"Arthur, I beg you! Have mercy!" Lucia wailed with tear-streaked cheeks, "If you are as honorable as they say you are---please! Do not take your vengeance! Let me live! I want to live!"

"You don't know what it means to live," spat Lancelot bitterly, "And you never will."

"I wasn't talking to you!" Lucia screamed as something inside of her finally snapped, "Is this it, then? Are you going to kill me, you heartless heathens? That's right, I mean you too, Arthur! You're only _half _Roman! Go on and kill me then! Take your revenge! Do it!"

"If what I have seen here today is the conception of Rome, then I am glad to be rid of it," said a calm Arthur, controlling his anger, "And I will not sink to your level. I will not give you the satisfaction of my revenge. Look around this room, Lucia. No windows. No means of escape. And the flames are growing closer. Your death will be of your own making."

Lucia's face fell open as if a dark abyss had swallowed it. Lancelot smiled grimly as he followed Arthur out of the room and bolted the door shut from the outside. The two men stood staring at the locked door for a moment as pounding fists and muffled screams drifted out from inside. They shared a solemn look that would have been verbally translated to mean, "It is finished, then." With that, they retreated from outside the door, leaving Lucia and the two remaining politicians to their fate.

"We must find the rest of the knights," said Arthur, "You head down that way, and I'll take this hall to the right." Lancelot nodded in compliance and began to head in the direction that Arthur had pointed out for him. "Oh, and Lancelot---" added Arthur, "---be careful."

Lancelot smiled. "What are you? My mother?" he teased, "Now get out of here, you old goat, before we both burn alive!"

--------------------------

Tristan, Galahad, and Gawain made their way through the estate, ordering everyone they came across to evacuate immediately. Servants ran frantically about, gathering what belongings they could and retreating from the fire-flooded estate. The flames were quickly encompassing the entire building and it would not be long before the structure began to collapse.

A frail, hunched over old man wobbled over to the knights. "What are you all standing around here for!" he harped at the warriors, prodding them with his walking stick, "Don't you think we know how to flee a burning building? Away with you! Get! Get! There are others who need your help. Now, go!"

"What others?" Galahad asked urgently.

"Where?" added Gawain.

"The locked up ones, of course!" answered the old man, as if the answer should have been obvious. "The ones they call demons! They are caged just beyond those doors!" he added, pointing to a set of doors with his curved wooden stick.

"How did we not see this coming?" asked Gawain, rolling his eyes.

"What's a Roman estate without the prison chambers?" Galahad added with a sigh.

The three knights plowed through the doors where they found the cells holding starving slaves dressed in nothing but rags. The dungeon was dark and damp, with only a few rays of moonlight filtering through the ceiling. The prisoners sat about the floor next to the multitude of decomposing bodies that lay cluttered around them. The knights swung their swords at the locked bars to release what captives were still alive. Grasping at their chance at freedom, the skeletal prisoners rushed from the doors like wild animals and within seconds, the cells were depleted of any remaining life.

Tristan was about to take his leave of the murky dungeon along with Gawain and Galahad, but was stopped suddenly in his tracks by a whimper that came from the corner of one of the cells. He stooped down into the cell and approached the sound cautiously. In the corner lay a young woman with skin that had turned gray with death and lifeless eyes that were fixed on the ceiling above her. She couldn't have been dead more than a day. Tristan's eyes moved down her frozen body to her arm that encircled a newborn infant who tossed about in its rags, mewling out in a high-pitched cry.

Tristan crouched down helplessly beside the wailing child. "Shhh," he cooed softly, "Don't cry, little one." To Tristan's dismay, his voice seemed to soothe the infant who looked up at him with wide-eyed curiosity. "There, now," said Tristan to the silenced child, "There's nothing to cry about." The infant reached out its tiny hand and Tristan found himself allowing the child to grasp his finger. He felt as though his chest would burst as his heart swelled with a myriad of unidentifiable feelings. He felt as if some outside force had taken control of his body as he lifted the infant and cradled it in his arms.

Tristan emerged from the cell where Gawain and Galahad waited for him. "We should leave _now_," said Galahad impatiently, "The structure's going to fail any minute. The fire is spreading too quickly."

"I see you made a friend," commented Gawain, noticing the infant that Tristan held in his arms.

"Its mother is dead," Tristan explained simply.

"Well, it'll just have to come along with us then," said Gawain gruffly, as though the child were just another hindrance.

"Yes," answered Tristan, ignoring Gawain's tone and staring down hypnotized at his precious bundle, "I will look after it." Galahad and Gawain shared a meaningful glance in confusion at the scout's newly found soft touch. The three knights then dashed through the now quickly falling embers, hastening to evacuate the estate that had now almost completely gone up in flames.

-----------------------

"It's not fair!" yelled Tarra as she beat her fists against the earthen wall of her underground prison. For what seemed an eternity now, she had been screaming at the top of her lungs for someone to come to her rescue, but as of yet, her pleas had been to no avail. She could feel beads of sweat forming on her forehead from the heat of the fire above. "This is not how I'm supposed to die!" she screamed in protest, despite the fact that no one could hear her cries. She stomped around indignantly with her hands resting on her hips. "I am _Tarra_! Thief and almost-assassin feared throughout the entire Roman Empire!" she raved, "I do not bloody die from falling into a sodding pit!"

Tarra leaned her back against the wall and banged the back of her head against it in frustration. "It isn't fair," she repeated to herself, "I did the right thing for once, didn't I? I didn't kill Arthur and, in fact, I even went as far as to lead him to the one who _really_ wanted him dead! And this is the thanks I get. So much for morality! Who wants to do good when death is the reward?"

Tarra sighed in exasperation and felt into her pocket where she had thrust the gold coins that Lucia had given her---or rather, that she had tricked Lucia into giving her. As she fingered the trinkets in nervous anticipation of her doom, an epiphany struck her between the eyes. "Oh, bloody hell! Is that what this is all about?" she cried up at the fates who she believed were punishing her, "So I didn't earn the money fair and square? I certainly deserved it regardless of completing my mission. Who cares if some rich Roman wench gets swindled, anyway?" As she spoke these words, she gathered the money in her hands, lifting them up in display for the heavens. "But fine! Have it your way!" she yelled, tossing the coins out the top of the pit, "Take the money. I don't want it anymore, anyway! I just don't want to die!"

"Tarra? Tarra is that you?" came a voice from above that she recognized.

Tarra's heart leapt out of her chest. "Lancelot?" she screamed, hardly able to contain her excitement and relief.

"What are you throwing things at me for?" he called down to her.

She could barely restrain her sheer joy as his face became distinguishable from behind the screen of smoke. She had never been so happy to see his smug face. "I wasn't throwing them at _you_!" she called back up to him.

Lancelot looked down at her with an amused grin. "Well it looks like you've got yourself in real deep this time," he teased in evaluation of her circumstances.

"Ha ha! Very funny!" she retorted, "I am well aware of the depth down here, thank you very much!"

"I didn't mean it like that," he laughed.

"Well, are you going to help me out or not?" she yelled up at him impatiently.

"Very well," he replied, leaning down through the hole in the floor and reaching his hand out to her, "Take my hand."

Now, it wasn't until this point in time that Tarra had actually considered what Lancelot's saving her would entail. She eyed his open palm warily and said, "Isn't there a rope or something you could throw down?"

"Bloody hell, Tarra! This is not the time to get particular!" he shouted in bewilderment, "No. I don't bloody carry around rope in my britches. Now let me pull you up!"

"Isn't there any other way?" asked Tarra, letting her hesitation show on the tensed lines of her face.

"Listen to me," said Lancelot firmly, "I know you don't like to be touched, but from our conversation the other night, I don't think you like dying very much either."

"Never mind then. I'll find my own way out!" Tarra insisted, though she knew very well any attempt would prove futile.

"You stubborn fool! Will you just get over yourself?" Lancelot reproached, "Remember how you said that when you die, you want it to be as painful as possible? Well, let me tell you, getting burned alive is going to hurt like hell!"

"Ha! What a delightfully unintentional wit you have!" replied Tarra as she seemed to retreat into a state of denial about the peril of her situation, "Yes, I daresay being burned alive _would _hurt like hell, what with hell being a fiery underworld and all."

"This isn't a joke!" he cried out in exasperation, "All you have to do is take my hand and it will all be over. Now, hurry! We haven't much time left."

"I know this isn't a joke, but it's no use, Lancelot," said Tarra, hanging her head in defeat, "Just go."

"No. I'm not leaving you here," said Lancelot in defiance, "Not when you're the only woman I've ever---"

Tarra's head shot up in surprise. "---ever what?" she asked, though in her heart she knew the answer.

"Damnit Tarra! We have no time for this!" Lancelot cried in desperation, "Just TAKE. MY. HAND."

Tarra let out a sigh of resignation and closed her eyes tight, as though she could not bear to watch what happened next. She reached up her arm, extending her hand towards his. She felt his palm meet with hers while his hand firmly enveloped her slender fingers. Her feet were suddenly lifted from the ground and another hand tugged at her waist to lift her further. She squeezed his hand, holding on with all her might. And even after he had pulled her to safety, she did not let go.


	23. Chapter 23

Hey everyone! I have an extra long chapter for you guys this time because, well, I had a ton that I wanted to fit in and didn't really want to break it up, so yeah. etraya- thanks for your review! It's pretty much my intention that Lucia is dead now (finally). After this, I have two more chapters in mind, so things are coming to a close (Aww, it makes me sad to say that because I've loved writing this). Anyways, Happy Thanksgiving to those who celebrate! Eat lots of turkey!

-----------------------------------

And even after he had pulled her to safety, she did not let go. Hand in hand Lancelot and Tarra raced through the winding halls of the crumbling estate. The fire seethed all around them, consuming everything in its path. Their eyes stung from the smoke that flooded the halls like water bursting through a canal. They swam through the murky grayness with Lancelot leading the way and Tarra holding on for dear life. She only hoped that Lancelot knew where he was going because she most certainly could not see a single thing in front of her.

"How can you even see where you're going?" asked Tarra between coughs as she gagged from the smoke that burned in her lungs.

"I can't," answered Lancelot with brutal honesty as he continued to lead them further into the obscurity.

"Well that makes me feel much better," Tarra retorted sarcastically.

"Just another moment now and I think we'll be out," he predicted, pulling her forward to quicken their pace.

"You _think_? Could you give me some kind of probability ratio? Like, ten to one we make it out or how about a hundred to one---I like those odds. Hundred to one we make it out alive! What do you say? We're going to make it out, right?" she rambled on, squeezing his hand tightly and trying to keep up with his momentum.

"Will you just shut up and trust me? I'm not going to let any harm come to you," he assured her.

"Why, how chivalrous of you!" she cried, pretending to swoon, "My knight! My hero!"

"You want chivalry? Fine. I'll show you chivalry," Lancelot pronounced and swept Tarra off her feet and into his arms.

"Hey! Put me down!" Tarra cried out in protest. She flailed her arms and legs, trying to get him to drop her, but his hold was too strong. Lancelot carried her through the last bit of smoke until they reached a set of doors leading outside. Lancelot kicked open the doors, and they burst into the fresh air letting it fill their lungs like two who have almost drowned breaking out of the water's surface.

A fit of coughing seized Tarra and she felt herself lean her head against Lancelot's chest as her body contracted in effort to expel the smoke from her lungs. When she was finally able to breathe again normally, she found that they had reached the outskirts of the estate's property where Arthur and the rest of the knights were waiting for them. Galahad and Gawain had been absorbed by the awe-inspiring sight of the building collapsing in the distance, but now found a more striking distraction in the sight of Tarra bundled up in Lancelot's arms. Needless to say, their jaws hit the ground.

The vision was fleeting, however, as Tarra quickly freed herself from Lancelot's possession, giving him a sharp punch to the forearm once she was back on her own two feet. "_That_ was totally unnecessary and _completely_ uncalled for!" she berated her deliverer.

"But undeniably worth it," replied Lancelot with a cocky grin. Tarra glared at him.

"Lancelot, Tarra, I'm so relieved to see you made it out safely," said Arthur in his own robotic earnestness. His thoughts seemed elsewhere---probably on the trouble at Hadrian's Wall, Lancelot supposed.

"Okay, what the _hell _is Tristan doing?" Tarra asked in dismay, completely ignoring Arthur. Tristan stood off to the side, leaning against a tree and cradling a baby---yes! A baby!---in his arms. "Has he been sniffing the Woad paint again or what?" she added.

"Ah, yes. _That_." Galahad said, "He found it in the estate and seems to be taking a liking to it. We were hoping you might be able to find out what's going on there."

"Me? Why me?" Tarra demanded, "Why don't you go talk to him?"

"Well, you're his sister and everything…" said Galahad, trying to come up with a good excuse---or any excuse, for that matter.

"You're not _afraid _to talk to him, are you?" asked Tarra provokingly.

"Me? Afraid of talking to Tristan? Certainly not," Galahad scoffed, "I just wouldn't know how to go about it. And besides, I could best him in a fight any day. I have no reason to be afraid, and I'm offended at the suggestion!"

At that moment, a dagger flew straight past the tip of Galahad's nose, embedding itself in the trunk of a nearby tree. Galahad's face turned white as he spun around to see Tristan smirking from afar.

Tarra laughed. "Yeah, you just keep telling yourself that." She then walked over to where Tristan stood and observed him with a perplexed look on her face. "You know," she said, "There's a Roman estate just over there that is being engulfed in a sea of flames. I mean, look at it. It's as if the earth opened up and the fires of the underworld leapt up and snatched the estate with their stinging claws. And do you smell that? That's the smell of scorching Roman flesh. And that crackling sound? That's the laughing of the fates at the Roman's for ever thinking they could get the best of us."

Tristan seemed to be ignoring her. She sighed, "But you're not enjoying it. You're too busy looking at that---that---"

"Child?" Tristan prompted.

"Whatever," said Tarra, "You're not planning to take that thing with you, are you?"

"Well I'm not just going to abandon him under a tree," Tristan replied; and suddenly after hearing his own words, his eyes seemed to be swimming with the shared recollection of their past that they both carried with them, "I would be wrong to do that."

"Yes, I suppose you would be," said Tarra with a look on her face that showed that her thoughts were in the same place as Tristan's, "But if it were me, I think I would come to forgive you eventually."

Tristan gave Tarra the slightest of nods. Their words may have sounded meaningless to anyone who might have been listening, but in that moment and with those words, they at last reached a true state of mutual forgiveness.

"Would you like to hold him?" Tristan offered.

"Hell no!" was Tarra's immediate reply. "And don't expect me to clean up after the mess he's going to make either," she added, "It's a boy?"

"Yes," he replied.

"Well good," she said, "Girls are insufferably annoying. Just watch his aim or he'll end up peeing all over the middle of your face."

"Tristan! Tarra!" Lancelot called over to them, "Come over here! Arthur has an announcement."

Tristan and Tarra rejoined the rest of the knights as Arthur spoke, "Knights, our mission here has been successful and I owe you my eternal gratitude for that. Unfortunately, we have further trials ahead we still must face. It is not but a few hours until dawn and at first light we must leave immediately for Briton. I pray that the fort at Hadrian's Wall has not fallen into enemy hands, but if it has, we have a long fight ahead of us."

"And I still say we leave now!" interjected Galahad passionately, "We mustn't wait another second! Every moment we waste puts the country in further danger!"

"Believe me, Galahad, there is nothing I want more than to leave this very instant," said Arthur solemnly, "But we are in unfamiliar territory, and we do not know if the trail is safe at night. The next ship departs for Briton late tomorrow afternoon. If we leave at dawn, we shall have no trouble making it on time."

"Wait a minute, can we back up to the part where you were thanking all the knights for completing the mission and so on and so forth?" asked Tarra peevishly.

"Alright…" Arthur said, not exactly sure what she was driving at, "What about it?"

"What about it? _What about it? _What about the champion of the whole affair without whose expertise the entire operation would have fallen apart!"

"Yes, of course, I could never forget to thank God for delivering us," said Arthur with the utterly undetectable undertone of a jest.

Tarra narrowed her eyes at him. "That's not who I meant."

"And thank _you _as well, Tarra," Arthur added with a laugh.

"You're welcome," replied Tarra begrudgingly.

As the knights settled down to take advantage of the two hours of sleep they could afford before daybreak, Tarra wandered off into the trees to take in the fresh night air and the moonlight. She needed to clear her mind. So much had happened and there was so much to process. Unfortunately, she wasn't given a chance as she suddenly heard the rustling of footsteps behind her. Tarra turned to see Lancelot peering down at her through his dark eyes. Her heart picked up speed as he advanced towards her. He extended his arm to reach out to her, but she quickly recoiled and backed away from him.

"So we're back to this, then, are we?" he asked with a mixture of frustration and disappointment.

"I don't know what you're talking about," she replied, deflecting his question.

"Yes you do," he contended, "One step forward and two steps backward. Why can't you trust me like you did in the estate?"

"It had nothing to do with trusting. I just didn't want to die," Tarra explained simply.

"I didn't want you to die either," he said. Lancelot hesitated for a moment as if not sure exactly what he wanted to say next. Finally, he looked into her eyes directly and said, "Tarra, I want---I want to be with you."

"You want to be with everyone," scoffed Tarra, "How is Lucia, anyway? Did you two find time to rekindle the flame?"

"Oh, the flames were rekindled, alright, and very literally burned her to a crisp," Lancelot replied, "But that's not the point, Tarra. The point is that I want you and only you."

"Sure, and how easily you say those words. I'm sure you have had much practice with them," Tarra retorted.

"If you really understood me---if you really understood yourself, you would see that we are not so very different."

"Are you completely serious?" asked Tarra, unable to believe her own ears. "And here I was hoping you'd never find out about my promiscuous ways," she added sarcastically, "Honestly, Lancelot, we couldn't be any more different."

Lancelot was losing his patience. "Look, the reason why you don't like to be touched is not because of any mal effects you're afraid it will have on you, is it? Is it?" he demanded. Tarra shifted her weight nervously and avoided making eye contact. "The real reason," Lancelot continued, "that you do not want to be touched is because you despise _yourself_. Am I right? You believe that you are depraved and nefarious, which may be true, but more importantly, you believe that you are _cursed_. And to top it all off, if you touch someone---if you make that contact---you truly, utterly believe that you will infect them with your evilness and corrupt them with your villainy. Am I right? Am I right, Tarra?"

He could see the hurt in her eyes as she drew in a breath and cleared her throat. "All my life I've been trying to figure that out," she said in an astonished half-whisper, "And you make it seem so obvious. You see it all so clearly."

"But only because what I see in you is that which I recognize in myself," Lancelot explained, his voice comforting and kind, "I want to explain this to you because it's the only way that you will ever believe my sincerity when I say that---I love you. You see, I had resigned myself never to love anyone. I had spent my life fighting for a country not my own and killing those who had the rightful claim to it. Tarra, you may see vice in yourself, but I assure you it is no greater evil than I have seen in myself. So many lives have been taken at the edge of my swords that for as long as I could remember, I had convinced myself that I did not deserve the chance at a life of my own. I slept with many women, I will not deny it, but I did so only to pass the time until I would finally die in battle and join the souls whose lives I had stolen. When I did not die---well---I did not know what to do. I felt as though I had lost my direction---my predestination. Then one day you stumbled into Arthur's hall with your knife plunged in another man's throat---and you were so different from anyone I had ever met. But at the same time you were so familiar because I saw so much of myself in you. I felt like I understood you, like I had known you all my life. When I found out you had been hired to kill Arthur, I thought I could never forgive you because of my loyalty to Arthur. But I was wrong. I realized that the real reason I was so angry was because I felt I had been betrayed by the first person I had allowed myself to have true feelings for. What I'm trying to say, Tarra, is that I love you. I've loved you from the start. And I want to hold you. I want you to let me put my arms around you. I want to feel your head pressed against my chest. Please let me in. Please do not push me away any longer. I cannot bear it a moment longer."

"Kiss me."

"What?"

"You heard me. Kiss me."

Lancelot's heart beat rapidly as he slowly approached her. She looked up at him, her eyes wide and unresisting, yet still holding a tinge of uncertainty and fear. He let his hands pass over her narrow shoulders, hovering over her skin as to simulate a caress without actually making the contact. A chill ran up Tarra's spine and her hair stood on end.

She felt her eyelids close and suddenly her lips were pressed against his. A shudder ran through her body as his fingers clasped about her shoulders. An unexplainable force came over her that made everything that had before seem so foreign now seem so natural. Before she knew it, her arms had wrapped themselves about Lancelot's neck and her body had sunken into his. Their kiss deepened, as he backed her up against a tree, running his hands through her dark hair.

His lips moved down to her neck, gently bequeathing a trail of kisses. He ceased for a moment to look at her face and found a tear rolling down her cheek. He brushed it gently away with his finger and tilted her chin up so that she would meet his gaze. "What are you thinking?" he whispered.

Tarra shook her head and smiled. "If I told you, I'd lose all respectability with myself," she said.

"Because you're supposed to be bitter and indifferent?" Lancelot asked mockingly.

"Galahad's going to be very disappointed in me," said Tarra with a laugh.

"He'll get over it," said Lancelot, claiming her lips once again with his own.

Morning was fast approaching, but Lancelot and Tarra had long since lost track of time. They lay sleeping together beneath a tree with Tarra nestled up against Lancelot's chest. Lancelot's arms encircled her slender frame, forming a protective wall around her. For the first time in her life, Tarra discovered what it felt like to feel safe. She slept soundly in his embrace, dreaming of two horses galloping through an open field.

------------------------

CRASH! The main gate at Hadrian's Wall rattled. A group of burly Saxons clad in animal skins swung a giant log in a joint effort to break down the door. They threw the entire weights of their bodies into the thrust, their guttural cries rising up to the ears of those Britons who watched warily from above. The few dozen left at the wall who had not evacuated had thus far been successful in defending the wall from any enemy penetration. A few dozen Woads who had been stationed at the wall stationed themselves along the parapets as archers, shooting any enemy that charged at the wall. In the back of each of their minds, however, they knew they could only stall the inevitable for so long. If aid did not come and if it did not come soon, the fort would soon fall into their assailants' hands.

Bors and Guinevere rushed to the scene above the main gate with a barrel of oil. Jillian followed closely behind with bow in hand. "Help us!" ordered Guinevere to the Britons who stood about gaping at them. Together with Bors and Guinevere, they poured the oil over the side of the wall, smothering the Saxons and their battering ram in dark, sticky goop. Jillian lit the tip of her arrow on a torch that hung on the parapet and took aim, gracefully drawing back the string. A faint, self-satisfied smile drifted across her face as she released the arrow and the battering ram and surrounding Saxons went up in flames.

Jillian had not slept in days, but she did not feel tired. In fact, she felt revitalized and more alive than she had felt since---well, she didn't like to think about that anymore. Her face was no longer pale and sickly, but flushed with vigor and vivacity. She had a purpose again and that was to fight for her country. There was no room in her thoughts for anything but killing every last attacker outside the wall and that was better medicine than all the bed rest in the world. It was as though she had been hungry for a long time and not even realized it, but now she was starving---starving to kill anyone who threatened their freedom.

Bors and Guinevere were equally invigorated by the battle. "RUUUUUS!" Bors bellowed at the sight of the burning Saxons below. He smiled triumphantly at Guinevere and Jillian for whom he had earned a new respect. He hated to admit it, but those girls knew how to fight. He was too proud to ever let them know it, though. "Don't let it go to your heads," he warned, "We can't hold them much longer. We may not live to see tomorrow."

"You've been saying that every day since we started fighting," countered Jillian with an amused smile, "When will you accept that it is _we _who have the greater advantage? We are fighting for something we believe in---the freedom of our country."

"And we will continue fighting down to the last man or woman," added Guinevere resolutely.

"Bloody idealistic women," muttered Bors with a roll of his eyes, "Ideals don't win wars. Skill and weaponry and strategy win wars."

"But ideals can never be broken nor can they ever be defeated," said Jillian firmly.

Before Bors could make a counter-argument, one of the young British men, a member of Guinevere's Woad tribe stationed at the wall, called over to him, "Sir! Come take a look at this!" The young man handed him an arrow that had been lodged into the wall and Bors studied the etching carved into its side.

"What is it?" asked Guinevere.

"The mark of the Papal army," Bors answered, trying to restrain his anger, "These are Roman weapons."

"What does that mean?" Jillian inquired.

"The Romans are supplying them with weaponry," spat Bors.

"Those bastards! Those bastard tribes chose loyalty to the Romans over loyalty to Arthur!" Guinevere roared, shaking with rage. She looked over the wall and scowled down at the scatterings of Woads among the Saxons. "I can't bare to look at them any longer," she muttered in a crazed state of anger and stormed off to the inner halls of the fort.

Jillian watched Guinevere go and felt suddenly very lost. Guinevere was their queen, their leader and thus far had making all the decisions. Now they were leaderless and something inside her told her that she must take charge. Jillian stared down at the members of the Itis and Udela tribe charging along side the Saxons against the wall. She felt her blood boil, and suddenly her feet were climbing up to the highest point of the parapet to stand recklessly before them, not caring if she made herself an open target.

"Fellow Britons!" she called down to them, "What are you fighting us for? Are we not born of the same earth? Do we not share the same blood? Why do you alliege yourselves with those who would conquer and oppress us? And those who _have _conquered and oppressed us?"

"We did not fight in the battle of Badon Hill to be ruled by a Christian king!" one of the Woads called up to her.

"Yet you make pacts with the Romans for weaponry and supplies?" cried Jillian in disbelief, "Are you so foolish to believe they are funding you out of the generosity of their hearts? They are purchasing back their power over our country! Yes, I said _our _country because together we must share it and together we must fight for it! But you want to give our country to the Saxons and the Romans who have no claim on it. Arthur may be a Christian, but he is a Briton as well. He is one of us. He believes in our right for freedom---to finally be free in our own country after hundreds of years of oppression! Can you imagine? My entire life and for your entire lives, as well, a free Briton was only a dream, but it does not have to be a dream any longer! At the battle of Badon Hill, we united together behind Arthur to declare to the world our right to choose our own destiny and the destiny of our country! And this is the destiny that you choose. Together we gave birth to a country of ideals and now you are killing it! Our country---our free country is a beautiful dream, but you won't let it be realized. You won't give it a chance to live. Why won't you let it live? Why couldn't it live?" Jillian choked momentarily, fighting back tears. She continued, "We have a chance for the first time to have a country that is our own. Fight for it! Join us in our loyalty to Arthur and ensure that Briton will stay free for generations to come. You, my fellow Britons, are my brothers and my sisters and I ask you to fight with me. Briton is our child and we cannot let it die!"

A cheer echoed up from beneath the wall as the Woads of the Itis and Udela tribes rose up against their Saxon comrades, pummeling them down into the earth, the earth of their homeland. Jillian raised her bow triumphantly in the air and let out her battle cry. "RAAAAAAAAAA!"


	24. Chapter 24

Lancelot awoke at dawn with Tarra's long dark hair strewn across his face. His first instinct was to brush it aside, but he found himself breathing in its enticing scent. He inhaled deeply and ascertained the perfumes to be a brew of ash from the previous night's fire and pine from the forest.

"Stop it," mumbled Tarra.

"Stop what?" asked Lancelot innocently.

"Stop smelling my hair, you creep," grumbled Tarra as she nestled her head back into his chest to catch a few more minutes of sleep. She was having a good dream.

Lancelot laughed to cover his humiliation at being caught in the act. He gently brushed her hair out of the way and began to stroke her head. "We should get up," he said softly in her ear, "Arthur will be wanting to go."

"Five more minutes," she muttered. This was a _really _good dream.

"Come on, up you go," coaxed Lancelot as he lifted her up into a sitting position.

Tarra groaned and rubbed her eyes open. She scowled at Lancelot who was consuming her with his eyes that were already wide awake. Apparently his sexual appetite was not abated by the earliness of the hour. "What's the matter with you? I look terrible in the morning," she said.

"You look beautiful," he replied, still not releasing her from his stare.

"You're a dirty liar," she retorted, "Or you're delusional. Either way, I suggest you wipe that smug look off your face or I'll knock it off with my fist. I warn you, I'm terribly irritable in the morning and not to be trifled wi---"

Her words were interrupted by Lancelot's lips that stifled hers into submission. Their mouths joined together in a waltz with Tarra's lips following Lancelot's lead through the steps of a kiss.

"There you two are!" came a voice that was Galahad's. He stopped suddenly in his tracks when he realized what he was interrupting. "Errr---sorry. Didn't mean to---uhhh---intrude on…" he stammered.

"It's not what it looks like!" Tarra protested, her face flushing with embarrassment.

"Oh, it most certainly is," insisted Lancelot, grabbing her to plant his lips on hers once again. Tarra pushed him away and stood quickly to her feet. Galahad laughed at the awkwardness of the situation. "Arthur told me to let you know that we're leaving now," said Galahad between snickers. He then strode off with an amused smile that hid the tinge of disappointment he felt inside.

Everyone was already mounted on their horses ready to go when Tarra and Lancelot joined the rest of the party. They were met with teasing looks by their companions who had been informed about their whereabouts and occupations from the loose-lipped Galahad. Tarra glared at them and said, "Yeah, yeah, put your eyes back in your sockets. It's not like you didn't see it coming."

"Yes," added Lancelot smugly, "We all knew Tarra has been vying for my affections since the moment we met."

Tarra rolled her eyes. "Don't listen to him," she said, as she mounted her horse, "Lancelot thinks all women are vying for his affections, but really he just has selective hearing and fails to realize that they are actually _dying from infections_---probably of the sexual kind."

Lancelot snorted at her comment as he climbed up on his own horse. Before he could continue their banter, however, Arthur interrupted impatiently, "If you're both quite done, we really must depart." Arthur was a nervous wreck and clearly anxious to get back to Briton. His country was in danger, and it was up to him to see that it did not fall into enemy hands. Understanding his distress and in show of their support, Tarra and the knights said not another word and immediatly rallied behind Arthur. With no time to lose, they rode off down the trail, home to Briton.

----------------------

Jillian raced excitedly through the fort to find Guinevere. The queen would be so pleased to hear the good news that the Itis and Udela tribes had allied themselves with the Britons to fight against the Saxons. Jillian could hardly contain her own joy. It was as though the battle had already been won. The Saxons' numbers were quickly dwindling. It wouldn't be long now before the Britons would once again reign triumphant.

Jillian reached the quarters where Arthur and Guinevere resided and pushed open the door. Guinevere sat in the corner of the room with her head buried into her knees. Merlin stood over her, watching her with his mystical eyes. Where did he come from? How did he always manage to show up out of nowhere? Jillian had learned long ago not to try to figure out the mysteries behind their enigmatic leader. Merlin nodded to Jillian as she entered. He then strode out of the room, whispering cryptically in her ear as he left, "We choose our own paths and cannot blame the jagged rocks for scraping our feet."

Jillian furrowed her eyebrows in puzzlement, but turned her attention quickly to Guinevere.

"My lady!" she exclaimed, "We turned the Itis and Udela tribes against the Saxons! They fight with us now! Are you not pleased?"

"They are fickle," Guinevere muttered, not looking up, "They betrayed us. They betrayed the Saxons. They'll betray us again."

"But not _today_," said Jillian firmly, "Today we shall be victorious."

"And what of tomorrow?" Guinevere countered hopelessly, "It is all for naught. My marriage---this country---it's all meaningless."

"What do you mean?" gasped Jillian in astonishment.

"I thought that if I married Arthur, we could unite this country and we could finally be free. I was a naive child," she confessed bitterly, "We cannot all have fairytale love like you and Tristan. And what's worse is that that's all our vision of this country is too---just a fairytale."

"Is that what you think Tristan and I have? A fairytale?" scoffed Jillian, unable to restrain her anger, "I'm sorry, but you are sorely mistaken. I love him. I do. And I want to believe that he loves me in return, but where is he now? He's gone. Even when he is here, he's gone because he locks himself away in his own little world. For awhile he let me into that world, but then I got pregnant and then---" She paused for a moment and then continued, "And then after---it happened---I locked myself in my own world and pushed him away. I should not have done that. If this is a fairytale, I'm afraid I have yet to see how to reach a happy ending."

"I'm sorry," said Guinevere, lifting her head for the first time to look Jillian in the face, "You know, it's strange. Lately, I've come to realize that I really do love Arthur and that it only grows stronger with time, but I did not marry him for love. Isn't that funny? I married him because it was right for the country. Now I am left with a deepening love for him, but the country is crumbling down all around us."

"I do not know what is in store for Tristan and me," Jillian confessed, "But I will not allow our country to fall. We have fought too hard and too long to give up now. I know now that---that my child will not have died in vain because its death has lit a fury within me. I'm mad as hell, and every last one of those Saxons out there is going to feel my wrath. Look into my eyes and witness my resolve. I am going to walk out of this room and I am going to fight. And I will not stop fighting until there is not a single Saxon left with breath in his lungs."

Jillian retrieved the axe that lay on the table next to Guinevere and stormed out of the room with the weapon in her hand. She held her head high as she marched across the fort ready to do battle with the devil himself, if she had believed in that sort of thing. She felt her fingers tighten around the axe's hilt as she spotted a group of Saxons up ahead. Once the Itis and Udela tribes had joined forces with the Britons at the fort, they had poured inside the wall, unfortunately bringing the Saxons with them. Jillian threw her shoulders back defiantly as she approached the Saxon giants. A hawk flew across the sky looking down on her, but she took no notice.

There were four of the Saxons all together, but three of them dispersed in various directions. The fourth, who seemed to be the leader, eyed Jillian maliciously with a toothy grin. He strode confidently over to her, swinging his broad sword cockily with one arm. Jillian narrowed her eyes and gritted her teeth. He wouldn't be smiling for long once she was done with him.

The enormous Saxon swung his sword at Jillian's head, but she quickly ducked and swung her own axe at his side. He blocked it easily with his sword and pushed her back. Jillian glared up at him with a scowl on her face, the blood surging through her veins. This time it was she who struck first, throwing her weight behind her axe and aiming it at the Saxon's thick neck. He easily blocked her attack once again, slashing his sword across her shoulder. She yelped out in pain as the blood trickled down her arm. Suddenly, something inside her broke and she lunged at the Saxon with such force that she knocked the sword from his hands.

Jillian no longer had control of her body. She raised her axe over her head and began hacking the hideous Saxon to pieces, throwing down the axe into his body time after time after time. His blood sprayed across her face with every strike, but she did not stop. The Saxon had ceased his struggle beneath her, succumbing to death, but she continued hammering her axe into his incapacitated body. "Don't you die, yet!" she screamed at him. His terrified eyes stared up at her in confusion. "Don't you die, yet!" she repeated, "You haven't even begun to feel pain! Don't you die on me, yet!" Her arms moved up and down repeatedly, hacking into the Saxon's flesh. Her mind was clouded, shutting out everything around her. All she felt was the rage inside her and the gratification of the violence. But then she heard a voice.

"Hey, little warrior. I think he is dead."

Jillian turned to meet two golden brown eyes peering down at her from behind dark tousled hair. She rose slowly to her feet, dropping the axe to the ground. Her eyes were out of focus and clouded over. Tristan walked over to her, and began to examine her wounded arm that the Saxon had slashed with his sword. Jillian seemed unaware of his gentle hands meticulously working to tie a bandage around the cut.

"You're bleeding," he said, tying the final knot. When she still did not wake from her daze, he put his hand to her shoulder. "Jillian? Are you okay?"

Her eyes shifted to meet his. "You left me," she said without inflection, without emotion.

"I'm here now."

"No. You left me. I needed you."

"You told me to go," Tristan replied simply. It was the truth, after all.

"And you listened?" Jillian asked indignantly.

"I always listen," he said, brushing away a strand of hair from her face.

"Well, never do it again."

"Never listen?" he asked.

"Never leave!" she corrected.

Tristan laughed. It was a soft laughter, and he tilted his head down to hide his sudden burst of amusement. Jillian gave him a playful shove. "It's not funny!" she reproached.

"Come here," he ordered, ignoring her reprimand and pulling her into an embrace. She laid her head against his chest and exhaled in relief. She had missed him so much. His fingers slipped under her chin and tilted her head up to his. They locked eyes for a moment until Tristan's lips crashed down onto Jillian's. He lifted her off the ground, pulling her closer to him and twirling her in the air. Their lips tangled together in serendipity.

Tristan set her back down and gave a slight smile despite himself. "Come," he said, "I have something to show you."

"What is it?" asked Jillian.

"You'll see," he replied, taking her hand and pulling her towards the main entrance of the fort. The Saxons appeared to be all but defeated, their corpses leaving a trail towards the main gate.

Jillian stopped suddenly in her tracks. Jols stood just up ahead, awkwardly holding an infant in his arms. He stood frozen in place as if the child would crumble to pieces at his slightest movement. Jols' face was wrinkled with concern as he stared down at the baby.

"Oh, give him here," said Tristan impatiently, "Haven't you held a baby before?"

Jols gave him a quizzical look. If Tristan hadn't been the one who had handed him the infant in the first place, he would have asked the knight that very same question. Jols blinked several times just to be sure he wasn't hallucinating. Perhaps he had really died fighting a Saxon and had been transported into some kind of alternate universe where Tristan apparently carried babies around with him. But this was not the case.

Jillian could not believe her eyes either. She looked over at Tristan with a mixture of shock and skepticism. "What is that?" she asked the knight who cradled the child gently in his arms as if it were the most natural thing in the world.

"I found him in the prison at the Roman estate," Tristan explained, "He has no family, and I couldn't just leave him there. I thought maybe we---"

"Tristan," Jillian interjected seriously, "If you think you can just replace our---"

"I don't," he said quickly, "Of course, I don't. But he needs a home."

"Nevertheless, a child is not like an arrow, Tristan," she said, appealing to a subject with which she knew he would relate, "You can't just grab another from your quiver after one flies off into the sky."

"That may be," countered Tristan, "But you also don't give up on archery just because you've lost one of your arrows to the sky."

Jillian sighed and looked down at the small child that had settled complacently in Tristan's arms. "Do you want to hold him?" Tristan asked.

Jillian nodded hesitantly and let Tristan place the infant gently in her arms. The baby looked up at her with wide eyes, and she would have sworn he smiled at her. She could not explain it. She suddenly felt warm all over and light---light like a weight had been lifted off her chest. "What is his name?" she asked, fighting back tears.

"I-I don't know," said Tristan, furrowing his eyebrows and wondering why he hadn't thought about naming the child before.

"What about Gabilan?" Jillian suggested.

"Yes," he replied, "That is good."

"It means hawk," she said.

A faint smile crossed Tristan's face. He leaned over and kissed Jillian on the top of her head. Jillian cradled Gabilan close to her heart and kissed his tiny cheek. Tristan stroked his hand over Gabilan's little bald head. They were a family.

-----------------

"Damnit, we've missed the party," said a disappointed Tarra as she surveyed the Saxon corpses scattered about the fort.

"We could make our own party," Lancelot suggested, pulling her to him. Tarra shrugged him off. Ever since they had disembarked on the British shores, she had seemed distant---and sad. She had been consumed in thought the entire time they were on the ship and that had been followed only by a dark melancholy that settled over her like a storm once they had reached the shore.

Lancelot was about to ask what was troubling her when they were interrupted once again by Arthur and Guinevere. The king and queen strode hand in hand over to where Lancelot, Tarra, Galahad, Gawain, and Bors were congregated. Guinevere looked up at Arthur with shining eyes. Her country was safe and her husband was returned. What could make her more content?

Arthur beamed from ear to ear. "Thanks to Bors, Jillian, the brave people here at the fort---and my beautiful wife, the Saxons have been defeated," he announced triumphantly, "Tonight we shall have a celebration."

And a celebration they had. The lights shone bright at Hadrian's wall that evening. The Woads gathered around an enormous banquet in the middle of the fort with music and dancing and games. Arthur and Guinevere sauntered from table to table together presiding over the festivities. Galahad and Gawain sat guzzling their whiskey, balancing women on their laps. Bors stood off to the side with his arms wrapped protectively around Vanora. Jillian lulled Gabilan to sleep as Tristan's hand caressed her back in light circles.

At the outer edge of the celebration, however, Lancelot stormed angrily after a fleeing Tarra.

"Tarra! Get back here!" Lancelot demanded, trying to catch up with her.

"There's nothing to discuss," she called back, giving him a dismissive wave.

"Like hell there isn't!" he cried in protest. He grabbed her arm and spun her around to face him. "Tell me what's going on," he demanded.

"It's just that I've done a lot of thinking…these last couple days..." Tarra began.

"And?"

"And I cannot stay here," she admitted finally, "I'm just not ready, I suppose. I must go. I need some time. Just a little bit more time is all."

"Time? Time for what?" asked Lancelot, unable to understand what was driving her away. They were in love---so in love. How could she leave? "Where will you go?" he asked.

"Anywhere. Everywhere," she replied with a shrug, "I need to figure out who I am---because I've been nobody for so long. And I can't do that while I only see myself through your eyes."

"Damn you," Lancelot cursed, "Damn you, Tarra. Every time I think we are making progress you shut down on me. When are you finally going to make that leap, Tarra? When are you going to love me at last?"

"I love you now---but I want to be worthy of you," Tarra explained, "And I want you to be worthy of me as well. Prove to me that I am worth waiting for. Prove to me that you are capable of waiting. Prove your fidelity, Lancelot, and I will prove that I am worthy of it."

"Haven't we been over this?" Lancelot asked with a sigh of frustration, "I love you---not despite your faults, but because of them. As for my own faults, I've already admitted that I have many, but that does not mean that you should walk away. I will never be perfect, and opening up to me---trusting me---will be a risk, but do it anyway, Tarra. Do it anyway."

"I don't want to get hurt," she confessed, "And I am not perfect either, so the risk is equally yours. I don't want to hurt you."

"You are hurting me now," he said.

"Don't you understand that it has to be this way?" asked Tarra with pleading eyes, "Like I said, I've been doing a lot of thinking over the past couple days as we made our way back to Briton. You said that we are so much alike because we both see such evil in ourselves. But is that really the basis for any kind of lasting love? We're the two most despicable people on earth, so we might as well be together, right? Well, I disagree. I've learned so much since I first came to Briton. Most importantly, I've realized that I am so---incomplete, and I have to change. I have to. I look at Arthur and you and the rest of the knights, and I see you do these extraordinary things---miraculous things. You're building a country based on ideals and freedom. By the gods, Lancelot, can't you see how incredible that is? Everything I've ever done has been of no certain consequence." She paused. "But not anymore. I need to find myself---I need to find my purpose. And I will return, I promise you. I will come back. If you can wait for me---until Spring comes---and if I can learn what it means to truly live---before Spring comes---then we will truly deserve each other, and we will have a chance at true happiness."

She covered his cheeks with her hands and kissed his lips. "Wait for me," she whispered and disappeared into the shadows.

--------------

Will she stay gone? Will she come back? You'll have to wait till the next (and final) chapter! Mwahaha. :P


	25. Chapter 25

Well, I was going to make you wait until Wednesday for the final chapter, but then I finished it and I couldn't in good conscience let it sit around for two more days. I just want to thank everyone for being so kind in their comments. I really hope that you have enjoyed reading this because writing it has been such a wonderful pleasure for me. I'm actually really sad that it's finished. I'm going to miss writing it so much. Anyways, that's enough out of me and my silliness. Here is the final chapter.

------------------

'_You're a bloody idiot, Tarra. A bloody idiot. Fool! Moron! Imbecile!'_

'_Alright already, I get the picture.'_

'_And you talk to yourself.'_

'_Shut up.'_

Tarra had arrived once again at the British shore with the sole purpose of leaving the island as soon as possible. She sat resting her chin in her hands and watched the ships arriving at the docks and departing from the port. She noted a sinking feeling in her gut like the kind she always had when she knew she was making a mistake. Yet, she could not help but believe that she was making no such mistake. She knew beyond a shadow of a doubt that she had done the right thing. Hadn't she?

The harbor began to bustle with activity in anticipation of an arriving ship whose familiar looking sails shook Tarra from her ruminations. '_No,' _she thought to herself, '_It can't be_.' But it was. The ship docked itself and out stepped the rather disoriented, but regal looking Sultan Arif who was followed by a small band of his advisors. Tarra's heart stopped and her mouth dropped open. She _had _to be hallucinating. But she wasn't.

Tarra scrambled to her feet and ran over to the dock. "Sultan Arif!" she called over to him, "What are you doing here?"

The sultan immediately put on an air of being equally shocked by her presence there as well, but being herself an aficionado of deceit, Tarra sensed a strange insincerity in his surprise. "Me? What are _you _doing here, Sadah?" Sultan Arif asked, addressing her by the name of his cousin's daughter as he had always mistakenly done, "And where is 'here'? This place doesn't look familiar at all!" He backhanded his nearby advisor in the forehead. "You brought us to the wrong place!" he exclaimed indignantly.

"Sire," said the advisor apologetically, "You told us to set sail for Briton, the nation recently liberated from Rome."

"What? Why would I make such an order as that?" demanded Sultan Arif, furrowing his eyebrows in discontent, "I clearly remember saying, 'Nadim, guide us back to the Arabian shores.' I am no fool, Nadim! This looks nothing like Arabia."

"But Sire," said Nadim, trying to reason with him, "You specifically commanded us to bring the army north to Briton." Tarra raised a suspicious eyebrow at this, noticing for the first time the Arabian army piled up inside the ship. What were they up to?

"You mean west," Sultan Arif corrected Nadim, "Briton is to the west."

"No, sire. Briton is to the north of Rome," replied Nadim in his usual patient, subservient tone.

"Did we sail north?" asked Sultan Arif.

"Yes, sire," Nadim answered.

"Then this is the wrong Briton," the sultan concluded, throwing his hands up wildly in the air, "We shall just have to head west now to the other one."

"I assure you, my liege, there is only one Briton and this is it," said Nadim, firmly, but respectfully.

"Oh, but you are very poorly misinformed!" interjected Tarra suddenly. The last thing this country needed was the Arabian army storming its gates. By the gods, she thought, Sultan Arif _must _be insane to drag his entire army all the way to Briton. What had he hoped to accomplish? "Sultan Arif, I am surprised you keep such ignorant advisors," said Tarra, "There is, of course, another Briton and it is to the west, like you said. It would be my pleasure to accompany you and show you the way."

She held her breath, waiting anxiously for the sultan's reply, but he beamed at her and said, "Sadah, my dear child, you warm my heart. Of course you must come with us. We will leave at once! There is clearly nothing of any interest or importance _here_."

So it was that no sooner had Sultan Arif landed on the island of Briton that Tarra had diverted him away. They loaded themselves back onto the ship and immediately disembarked, sailing west into the sea. The sultan's advisors eyed Tarra with a mix of bitterness and suspicion. They knew that they were headed aimlessly to a second Briton that did not actually exist, but any objection would have proved futile. No one had the influence over Sultan Arif that his beloved Sadah had.

Secretly, Tarra had never been so happy to see Sultan Arif in her life. He was the father she had never had and she had missed him. It was no wonder she always told so many stories about him. She almost felt guilty that she had been lying to him about who she was this entire time. Almost.

See, but therein lay the problem. She _should _have felt guilty for deceiving the poor old man, but she simply didn't. And why not? She supposed it was because she enjoyed---no, better---she treasured her relationship with the sultan. If she told him the truth, she would lose his regard, his fatherly protectiveness, and most of all his friendship. Perhaps then she was not completely vile for keeping up the pretenses. After all, she had done so out of her own affection for the old man, hadn't she?

Her affection for him, in fact, had never been stronger than it was now. He had arrived right when she had needed him most. Their aimless wandering was just the right anecdote for Tarra's muddled state of mind. She had needed to get far away from Briton so that she could look at things objectively, and Sultan Arif was providing her with the means to do so.

It therefore came as no surprise that Tarra confided in Sultan Arif everything that had passed between her and Lancelot---well, everything by Tarra's definition of the word, anyway. She of course left out certain details about why she had been on the island in the first place, but the sultan was far too fuzzy in the head to notice the gaping holes in her story.

"But why did you leave him?" Sultan Arif had inquired.

"Because I wanted to find myself," she had answered lamely.

"Have you checked your inner pockets?" Sultan Arif had asked, "Sometimes I stuff things in my inner pockets and forget all about them an hour later."

Tarra had laughed, "If only it were that simple."

For the next five months, they traveled this way and that. The direction did not matter because the senile sultan immediately forgot the destination he had had in mind in the first place. Instead, they stopped at every shore they encountered. After a few days of exploration, Sultan Arif would ask Tarra if she had found herself. "Perhaps she was hiding behind a tree?" he would suggest. It was endearing, but Tarra always answered in the negative.

After a short rendezvous in some place called Geatland, they once again boarded the ship to sail towards yet another unknown destination. Tarra sighed and stared off into the horizon. The sultan joined her at the ship's rail and studied her curiously. "You have not been yourself lately," he noted.

"I'm sorry," she replied somewhat dejectedly.

"It is because of that man Lancelot, isn't it?" he asked, "You love him, don't you?"

"Very much," answered Tarra without hesitation.

"Then you must stop being such a complicated and foolish woman!" exclaimed the sultan in a sudden outburst that stunned even the ever composed Tarra. "Enough of this nomadic wandering," he said, "It will never make you happy. I cannot stand to see you anything but happy. We shall set sail back to that other Briton at once."

"But Sultan---" Tarra started to protest.

"This is not a choice, Sadah," said Sultan Arif firmly, "You will return to this Lancelot person immediately, and I will hear no more objections."

There was no arguing with Sultan Arif. The ship cut across the water in a graceful turn about in the opposite direction---back to Briton. Tarra let out a sigh of defeat and resigned herself to her fate. It was almost spring time, but she did not feel any different. She still felt like the same old despicable Tarra.

What had she hoped to find? What had she hoped to change? These were the questions that ran through her mind as they headed back to Briton. She supposed that she wanted to be a better person. Yes, that was it---but how? She looked over at Sultan Arif and was suddenly struck with the realization that the answer had been with her all along.

They arrived at the British harbor, and Tarra knew what she had to do. As she went to exit the ship, she took Sultan Arif's hand. Yes, she actually took his hand and she said, "Sultan Arif, there is something I must tell you, and I fear that it will make you hate me forever, but I must say it. I've been lying to you this entire time. My name is not Sadah." She paused, "It's Tarra."

Sultan Arif stood staring at her for a moment with a twinkle in his eye that for once seemed to denote something other than senility. "Ah," he said with surprising clarity of mind, "But what is a name but something that is given? If I gave you the name Sadah, then that is your name, and there is no lie."

"No, you don't understand," Tarra replied helplessly, "You believed me to be your cousin's daughter, but I am not."

"Of course you're not," chuckled the sultan, "I have but one cousin and he has only sons."

Tarra furrowed her eyebrows in puzzlement. "Then why---why did you….?"

Sultan Arif squeezed her hand affectionately. "Who you were did not matter to me," he said, "We all wear masks, child. Most of us try to cover our evil with masks of virtue, but you---for some strange reason, you wear a dark mask to hide your goodness."

"You think that I have goodness?" Tarra asked in disbelief.

"I know you do," he answered sincerely.

Tarra swallowed hard. How long had she wished to hear those words and not even known it. A sly smile suddenly crossed her face, though, as she inquired, "And pray tell, what mask do you wear, Sultan Arif?"

His eyes burst with one final spark of soundness of mind before they once again clouded over and the lucidity he had shown her for the first time dissipated from his face. "I'm wearing a mask?" he asked in abhorrence, pulling at his cheeks in an attempt to remove the skin that was supposedly disguising him.

Tarra laughed. It was as she had always suspected. Most people try to hide their ignorance by making themselves appear intelligent, but for some strange reason, the Sultan Arif had hidden his sagacity under the guise of a fool. She found herself suddenly embracing the old man. She kissed him affectionately on the cheek and bid him farewell.

-----------------------

At Hadrian's Wall, the knights, villagers, and Woads alike, had congregated in the fort's main hall for a feast held by Arthur and Guinevere. Apparently, the king and queen had some sort of announcement to make, but they were insisting on keeping it a secret until the time came to make the toast. The atmosphere in the hall was jovial and merry. After a harsh winter, the warm spring air always improved the temperaments of all, but there was something more driving the lighthearted moods that night. Perhaps it was the anticipation that Arthur and Guinevere had wonderful news to share.

Tristan slipped inconspicuously into the crowded hall, unnoticed by the rowdy commotion of people mingling about the room. He found a safe corner away from the raucous and stationed himself there. This would be a long night. He scanned the crowd until his eyes rested on Jillian who stood at the other side of the hall conversing with Gawain and a few other Woads who were stationed at the fort. Tristan watched her every motion, her every gesture, captivated by the way she performed the simplest movements such as tucking a strand of hair behind her ear or tilting her head to one side to express an interest in what was being said. By the gods, she enchanted him.

Arthur clanged a spoon against his wine chalice to call the room to attention. He wore a senseless grin on his face that betrayed his state of euphoria over whatever news he had to share. Guinevere stood proudly by his side, tucked protectively under his arm with a smile to match his. When he had everyone's attention, Arthur cleared his throat and spoke, "Friends, fellow warriors, my wife and I have some wonderful news to share. You see, we---I mean---well---she is with---she is carrying---" Arthur paused a moment and blushed at his sudden inability to form sentences. He laughed in embarrassment at himself. "Well, I'll just come right out and say it," he said at last, "Guinevere is pregnant. We're going to have a baby."

A cheer exploded and thunderous applause roared through the room, reverberating against the walls. The knights hooted and hollered their congratulations, patting their commander on the back in approval. Arthur beamed from ear to ear like a proud father should.

Meanwhile, Tristan's rage boiled inside him as he tore across the room like a madman. He grabbed Jillian by the arm and dragged her out of the hall into the corridor. He led her by the hand, storming through the passages and out onto the Wall's parapet.

"Are you alright?" he asked, once they were safely out of anyone's ear shot.

"Of course I am. Are _you_ alright? What's going on?" Jillian asked, her face startled and concerned.

"No, I am not," growled Tristan in a blind rampage, "How could they do that to you? How could they be so insensitive?"

"How could who do what to me?" Jillian asked, still not sure what was going on.

"Arthur and Guinevere," Tristan explained, his voice dripping with disdain, "How could they throw their happiness in your face like that? It hasn't even been a year since---" He stopped himself there and stared down at the ground, "They should have given you advance warning of their announcement."

Jillian smiled and caressed his cheek, tracing her thumb across his tattoo. "Don't be angry," she said, her voice calm and soothing, "That kind of news should be shared with friends. I am very happy for Arthur and Guinevere."

Tristan studied her face, searching for any hint that she was not being completely honest. She held his gaze firmly, willing him to believe what she had said. After all, it was the truth. Finally satisfied that Jillian was being truthful with him, Tristan kissed her forehead as a sign of his acceptance.

The night air smelt of spring and Tristan had no desire to rejoin the indoor festivities. He took a seat with his back resting against the wall and pulled Jillian down next to him, wrapping his arms protectively around her. She leaned her head against his shoulder and sighed contentedly as they gazed up at the stars.

"You know," Tristan said proudly, "This morning, Gabilan took that little hawk carving I made for him and threw it right at my head. It hit me square between the eyes. He has a wonderful gift for aim."

"He gets it from me," Jillian said with a smug smile.

Tristan raised an eyebrow. "From _you_?" he asked in mock offense.

"Of course. After all, I _am _the better fighter of the two of us," Jillian teased, "And I'm starting his training at an early age. He can already out throw Gawain. He'll make a fine warrior someday."

"Why must he be a warrior?" asked Tristan in the overprotective fatherly voice he had recently acquired, "It's dangerous. Maybe he should be a scholar."

"He can be whatever he wants to be," Jillian said simply.

Her statement struck a chord inside Tristan that required him to stop and think for a moment. She was right. Unlike Tristan who had been forced against his will into military service at a young age, Gabilan would be able to choose for himself what he wanted to do with his life.

Tristan pulled Jillian closer to him and whispered, "Yes, you are right. He's free."

-----------------------

Back in the main hall, Lancelot took a swig of wine from his chalice. It had been over five months since he had held the delicacy of the female body in his hands, and he ached for it. Such celibacy had not been an easy task, either. So many times had the many familiar hips swaggered in his direction, had the many familiar eyes drowned in their desire for his attention, and had the many familiar lips seductively pursed and waited for him to take a taste. Despite each maddening temptation, he had abstained every time.

Lancelot presently observed a head full of long, golden locks that bounced up and down as they made their way towards him. It was Galahad's ex-lover, the one Lancelot had slept with the night before their journey to France. She advanced confidently towards him with a provocative smile on her face for which he returned only an expressionless stare.

A moment later she was at his side, gazing up at him with beckoning eyes. "Listen," she whispered flirtatiously, "This party is beginning to bore me. What do you say we head back to your quarters and have our own little bit of fun?"

"No," said Lancelot without hesitation, "There are plenty of available beds on this night, I am sure, so go find a different one."

His straight forward and unsympathetic reply shocked the poor woman who was not used to rejection. "Is it because of Galahad?" she asked in disbelief, "I am sure he no longer cares…"

"It has nothing to do with Galahad," said Lancelot dismissively, growing impatient.

"Then why?" she demanded.

"Because you're not the one I want!" he reviled with finality.

A speck of hurt flashed in her eyes, but she quickly covered it with a hateful scowl and stormed off, leaving Lancelot once again alone with his wine.

"And who is it that you want?" came a voice suddenly from behind him. Lancelot whipped his head around to find Tarra standing before him with an amused smile on her face. He thought his heart would leap out of his chest from the excitement he felt. It took every last bit of restraint inside him not to gather her up in his arms right then and there. She had returned. Finally she had returned.

"This must be some woman," Tarra continued, "for Lancelot, renowned philanderer and seducer of all things female, to forgo such a tempting offer."

"Well certainly not _all _things female," Lancelot corrected and then added with a grin, "But yes, she is some woman indeed."

"Tarra!" called Galahad from across the room, "You're back!"

"Galahad!" returned Tarra brightly, as Galahad strode over to where she and Lancelot stood, "I missed you so much!"

"And I missed you!" replied Galahad warmly, "Where have you been?"

Tarra laughed, "Where haven't I been?"

"Well I want to hear all about it," replied Galahad.

Lancelot rolled his eyes, annoyed at his fellow knight's monopolizing of Tarra's attention. "Come," said Lancelot impatiently, grabbing Tarra's hand, "You can catch up later. There's something I want to show you."

"We'll talk later," Tarra called over her shoulder to Galahad, as Lancelot led her quickly out of the hall.

"Where are we going?" she asked her guide who seemed in a terrible rush.

"To the stables," Lancelot replied, "Hurry!"

They sped through the fort and reached the stables, where they retrieved two black steeds. Together they flew through the gates of Hadrian's Wall, riding side by side in the open air. Their horses raced neck in neck through field after field. Tarra laughed as the breeze swept through her hair.

The sun had just begun to lift its head over the horizon when Lancelot brought his horse to a sudden halt at the top of the hill. Tarra pulled on her reigns and stopped directly beside him. Lancelot felt his heart race with anticipation as they dismounted their horses.

He took her hand once again and led her to the edge of the hill where it began to slope down into a valley. "Look down there," he whispered. Tarra took another step forward and peered down into the valley below. The sight knocked the wind from her chest.

Hundreds---no---thousands of lavender flowers carpeted the valley floor. Their little petals quivered in the breeze, rolling across the field like the tide of a purple sea, each flower so tiny, so fragile, but solidified together in their rippling wave of motion. After all they had put each other through and after all that had happened, Lancelot had not forgotten.

"_Here," she said as she handed it to him, "It's a Lavender flower seed. Hold onto it for me, and do not lose it because I'll want it back. If you can perform as simple a task as that, you should have no trouble figuring out someone as plain as myself." _

"You were supposed to hold onto it," said Tarra, trying to maintain her composure despite the feeling that her skin was the only thing keeping the rest of her from spilling out into every direction.

"I thought it might do greater service in the ground," Lancelot replied, trying to read what she was thinking or how she was feeling. "And I planted a few more while I was at it," he added. His palms were wet and clammy as he waited nervously for her reaction.

"I can see that," she said, "Though 'a few more' is quite an understatement, wouldn't you say?"

"Well I had nothing better to do to bide my time," he explained with a shrug, "So what do you think?"

What did she think? She wanted to cry out with happiness and throw her arms around him. That's what she thought. As always, however, she decided to play it cool. Tarra gave Lancelot a playful shove and forced herself to laugh only so that she would not cry. "What I think is that you are a preposterously sappy lover and a hopeless romantic!" she said, and then added, fighting back her tears, "And if I hadn't sworn to forever be bitter and indifferent---I---I think I might melt, it's so beautiful."

That was enough for Lancelot. He scooped her up in his arms and planted kisses all across her face and neck, and in that moment the world was a little bit more beautiful as they melted together in their happiness. "I am yours and only yours forever," he vowed.

"I have been yours and always will be yours and only yours---forever," she answered, and they sealed their promise with a kiss.

_Beyond Hadrian's Wall and beyond Badon Hill and further still beyond the Thames river, deep in the forest, an ancient oak twists its mighty trunk in defiance to past tempests and torments that sought to force the leafed giant into a submissive bow. Like a coat of arms worn and tattered from battle, the oak bears a faded etching upon its breast, "He who hath nothing to die for hath neither anything to live for." What is worth living for? I say love: the love of your God, the love of your country, the love of others. What is worth dying for? I say freedom: the freedom to love your God, the freedom to love your country, and the freedom to love another. But what of those who have never felt God's mercy nor the pride of their ancestors nor the warmth of a neighbor's touch? Who will weep at the deaths of the lifeless? Who will weep for those lives of no certain consequence?_

Tarra looked up at the sky and smiled. 'Do not weep for me, my friends,' she thought, 'Do not weep for me.'


End file.
